


The Summer

by Lizacharley9845



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, German, Hurt, M/M, Other characters from time may be added ..., Sort of love, Tagging is hard..., later character death, planning, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizacharley9845/pseuds/Lizacharley9845
Summary: Summer 1899 and possibly onwards tracking the relationship with Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore.





	1. 1st July 1899

**Author's Note:**

> I am really bad at summaries but I hope you like this. It's always nice to return to one's home fandom, as it were, and I enjoyed writing this, even though it is one of the less written pairings, rating may, and probably will, rise depending on how I feel. So here goes... Everything belongs to JKR.

1st July 1899, the Durmstrang Institute of Magic, Scandanavia

It was cold; freezing in fact, despite it being summer time, but that was not the reason why Grand Master Artemiy Victorovich Cheynov was attempting to conceal his shivering. He was used to the cold, he had been Grand Master of Durmstrang for the past two decades, and a teacher at the same institute for thirty years previous to that, and so was completely adapted to the freezing, windowless cell which passed as his office. Why someone would build an office completely out of stone with no windows or hooks for tapestries was beyond. _Something to do with not sitting easily on your throne, perhaps …_ he mused. Well, that was unlikely to happen with the crops of students he had taught during his career. Still, he’d never seen anything quite as bad as this. Now that … that was the true reason he was shivering, despite his pretence to the contrary as he pulled his furs more firmly around him, it was the realisation of who … no, what, after what the personage before him had don he was no longer sure if he could think of the child sitting opposite the desk from him as human. _I mustn’t show weakness, or he’ll pounce, like a dragon … stop being stupid! You were middle-aged and immensely powerful before he was even a glimmer in his father’s eye, nay, before his father was even thought of!_ With that slightly more reassuring thought, Cheynov squared his shoulders, brushed his long, silver hair out of his eyes, succeeded in stopping the proto-shiver which had been building in his core, and got firmly focused on the business at hand.

The Grand Master again regarded the boy sitting opposite him. Wild, dangerous, clever, persuasive … pretty … those were only some of the words he had heard in relation to this man, no, child (despite all he had done, and the way in which he behaved, Cheynov knew that he had to remember that this was a child before him, barely sixteen, _maybe he’d been led astray, surely…)_ , in the last day from various members of staff and the student body, which, in itself, was unusual, as they were usually a relatively uncooperative bunch. … _Mad…_ ‘ _Brilliant, of course, but completely and utterly insane. Yes, and dangerous, as most of the time he appears normal, charming even. Be on your guard, the boy is persuasive.’_ Master Taklorov had said- and he was not one to lie … or to be afraid of students if there was not a very valid reason.

Looking at the young man in question, none of the words surprised him, nor, honestly, did Taklorov’s warning. Despite his youth, which gave the boy an almost girlish beauty with his clear, pale skin and mass of blonde curls, as well as his glittering eyes and smile, which gave him a wild, merry look, and which seemed to attract so many of his fellow students to him, and his handsome features, slimness and heights, it may have been in his imagination, but Cheynov believed that the boy’s eyes contained a darkness. They seemed to imply that the boy knew far more than he let on, and far more than the masters, thankfully not including Cheynov himself, had ever taught him. The child’s smile unnerved him. _Perhaps it was only luck which allowed us to catch him … usually his minions get punished, and although he certainly disregards the rules, nothing like this has ever happened before … he’s never before let any of the trouble be linked back to him. … Was it maybe contrived? …_ Cheynov stopped himself right there, that was madness lay. You could not be completely paranoid and in charge of somewhere like Durmstrang. For sure, you had to be careful, as some of the students were definitely plotting against him, but nothing, ( _in most cases,_ he amended), that would cause any actual bodily harm. However, the boy’s posture, and, if he was honest, everything about him, gave credence to the Grand Master’s first thought. Despite being seated on the most uncomfortable intricately carved black forest carved chair in the ice-cold office ( _Cheynov had not got to become Grand Master of Durmstrang without learning the value of discomfort when dealing with disobedient students),_ he seemed completely comfortable and at home. In fact … _surely he couldn’t be … no,_ to Cheynov’s amazement, _he was, damn it, he was lounging!_ Cheynov had a nasty feeling that the boy, in his own mind at least, was far more in control of the situation than the Master himself. _If his aim,_ he thought, in a moment of complete understanding, disregarding the layers of self-confidence and arrogance he had built up throughout his life, _is to unnerve me, it is working perfectly._

He had to deal with this now. Get rid of the boy with the knowing eyes and the insane plans. ‘Herr Grindelwald,’ the Grand Master began, taking yet another deep breath, as the boy’s dancing eyes rose to meet his own from where they had been focused on examining the master’s desk. It held only the boy’s, rather lengthy, records, a quill, ink and timepiece, which the boy had been studying with a bored, detached interests, which was similar to the expression worn by a tourist studying the habitat of a particularly interesting, but nonetheless not particularly intelligent, zoo animal. ‘Despite your OWL results, which I must say, although you are not yet supposed to know, were spectacular, and your other scholastic successes at this school,’ Cheynov paused to allow the boy to smile in triumph, as students were usually wont to do after finding out that they had succeeded in exams. Grindelwald did not. ‘You leave me no choice.’ The Grand Master was not going to be intimidated by a sixteen-year-old _child_ , he thought, although his conviction on this point was decreasing at a rapid rate.

‘Ich verstehe.’ The young man replied. He had allowed his appearance of bored detachment to drop for a second, allowing Cheynov to see that he was clearly itching to go, wild and merry now definitely. Not the reaction the Grand Master had expected, but then again, who knew what went on behind those curls? _‘Fucking bag of monkeys.’_ One of the other masters had said, and despite his disgust of the crassness of the phrase, Cheynov was beginning to see where he was coming from. The tall boy’s blond curls bounced slightly as he squirmed on the seat with … what? … anticipation?

‘Your actions alone would be enough for you to be permanently removed from Durmstrang, no, any institution of magical education, and, more importantly for your undoubtedly bright future, any place of work. But, in addition to this, worsening the whole situation, your apparent lack or understanding, empathy, or remorse for what you did wrong …’ Cheynov purposefully ignored the grin which was slowly spreading across the boy’s face. He deliberately shook his head, as if the say _such talent, such a waste._ ‘And of course the wanton vandalism of that wall, as well as your other actions …’ For the first time in his long life, Cheynov’s voice was failing him. It was something about that boy’s smile. There was something about the look in his eyes now which the Master could not quite place. Something dark. Something, he thought, again suppressing a shiver … _scary. Like the calm before the thunderstorm, when you know something is going to happen, but you are not quite sure what. No- that was not the look, not entirely …_ Blood filled the Master’s mouth as he bit back an urge to yell. It would not help with this student. In fact, the old man suspected, it was probably whay the boy wanted him to do. Bearing in mind his previous actions, if Cheynov lost control of himself, he was not sure what Grindelwald would do next.

‘In brief,’ he just wanted to this appointment over with, ‘there is no place for you at Durmstrang next year.’ _Thank Merlin._ ‘Now, we cannot take your wand.’ _There! For the briefest moment, a tiny bit of fear, of real humanity._ ‘As technically there is no specific law against what you did.’ _Because any normal person would ever have even considered doing it, nay, not even thought of it, in fact._ ‘Now, I recommend you consider joining some form of training programme or perhaps another school until you reach your majority and enter some form of employment.’ _If anywhere will take him. Sure as hell if I looked at his record, and met him of course, I wouldn’t!_ ‘We, at Durmstrang, would of course be more than happy to help you with this process if you wish.’ _Just so long as we get rid of you..._

‘Ich verstehe.’ The boy repeated, that infuriating smile having reinstated itself once the momentary fear of wandlessness had passed. _Magic is worth more to him than anything …_

‘Gellert,’ Cheynov forced a smile onto his face, he had never before interacted with this student, therefore perhaps another angle would work better, after all, this boy was, the Master reminded himself yet again, little more than a child, despite all he had done. Maybe it was just teenage experimentation and curiosity. No, attention-seeking, that was it, especially when the boy’s home background was taken into consideration. Cheynov most definitely did not listen to the small part of him which said, quite wisely as it turned out, _‘Merlin’s beard, if this is what he is like in his adolescent phase, what on earth could he become as an adult?!?’_ ‘I am aware that you are an orphan, but is there any member of your extended family you would prefer me to call instead of your current guardian.’ He had read in the child’s record that he had been bounced from family member to family member since he was a small boy, which the Master did not find surprising, giving his temperament. His current guardian was an aunt of some sort living in Prussia with her husband and five young children, who had had charge of Gellert for about three years, and who was singularly unsuited in character and circumstances to managing the boy. ‘We have to, as, although you may perform magic due to the laws of Prussia, you are only sixteen and therefore not yet technically of age. Maybe another relative, guardian … friend.’ The boy made a slight face before his smile returned. From what he’d heard from the staff this did not surprise him. Gellert Grindelwald was compelling to other students. He had a group of devoted followers who swallowed his every word like they were the finest firewhiskey, but he had few, if any, true friends at school who actually trusted, and none that Cheynov was aware of who had already graduated, and therefore would be willing to take the boy in until he reached seventeen. As for his school fellows, of those in his little pack, Cheynov had, before meeting the young man in question, disregarded rumours of friends, well, perhaps still not trusted ones, of a _far, far closer_ sort. Before meeting Gellert, Cheynov had ignored the rumours, deemed them impossible, but then again, the way the boy was grinning, the look in his eye … the look of knowledge …

‘Nein. Just call Tante Inke. She will farm me out to whoever without any further inconvenience to yourself.’ No emotion changed the teasing of his grin. _This should be bothering him! Most children would be, after being bounced around so much._ Cheynov finally, desperate for anything, opened the file which he had read earlier and which was currently resting on the fine mahogany of the desk before him. _So full of contradictions._ Yet again Cheynov ignored that small, rebellious part of him, which was filled with screaming warning bells, although it was becoming harder each second he spent with the boy. He perused the names of possible family members in the file, he was determined that Gellert would go off to a relative, and therefore no longer be the Grand Master’s responsibility, as soon as possible. One of the names struck a chord of familiarity in him.

‘Perhaps your Großtante in England, Godric’s Hollow? The historian, Frau Bathilda Bagshot? I did not realise that you were related to her? Do you know her well?’ _Anything to stop that smile._ And, which made Cheynov feel a small surge of triumph, it did provoke another miniscule reaction; those eyes lost some of their merriment and a slight scowl briefly marred the young man’s features. 

‘Maybe. I do not know her particularly well. We write sometimes.’ It was obvious that, to Cheynov’s satisfaction, and increasing his belief that another human being was in fact sitting before him, that the boy did not relish discussing his familial situation, and the desire to leave immediately had returned to his countenance. 

‘Well … your Tante Inke … Frau Bechtel I mean,’ Why was Cheynov still feeling unnerved! ‘will come to collect you later this afternoon. I will have an owl sent to her immediately. You are dismissed. Please go and get your things together. I wish you luck in your future, Herr Grindelwald.’ _That’s a lie._ Cheynov very nearly sighed in relief. _No longer my problem. Though I pity the poor sods who have to take over now!_ The boy rose gradually, as if he had all the time in the world and sidled languidly to the door, before pausing with his hand resting on the doorknob. 

‘I wish you luck too, Herr Grand Master.’ He turned once more, smiling at Cheynov, whilst one of his hand reached, almost unconsciously it seemed, at the neck of his jacket, and touched a symbol on a chain around his neck. The Grand Master’s eyes were not what they once had been, meaning that he could not quite see the symbol on the silver metal against the dark grey uniform. But he had a horrid feeling that it could be the same as the one now adorning the wall above where … _the incident …_ had occurred, and which was resisting all attempts so far to remove it. _Another impressive bit of magic …_ With that final act completed, and a look of something disturbingly like triumph, Gellert Grindelwald, now a free boy at sixteen, turned the handle, and left. _For good, and good riddance!_  

Grand Master Cheynov, for just a moment, allowed his age to catch up with him; he felt truly ancient, he was too old to deal with this sort of thing. But he suspected that he may have to eventually. Not now, however. _No longer my responsibility. And hopefully not for a while, maybe never, depending on when I retire._ That thought allowed Cheynov to force down, with some success, the sense of foreboding resting heavily on his wizened shoulders.  _‘If that’s the last you hear of Gellert Grindelwald,’_ it said. _‘I’ll be damned.’_

_‘Shut up,’_ he told it. _‘What that boy dreams of is impossible.’_ And, with that reassuring thought, he went back to focusing on the letter he needed to pen to Frau Bechtel in Prussia, then on to other business. The issue was resolved in his mind. … How wrong he was. Little did he know the events he had set into motion, and would, much, much later, look back on this day in horror. _The face of evil …_

Meanwhile, a boy with blond curls was striding down the corridor away from the office, away from Durmstrang, into a bright future in the huge, wild world. A world he intended to change. _‘So much to do,’_ he thought.

1st July 1899, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, Great Britain

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was, for the first time in years, actually looking forward to the holidays. A chance to escape from home had finally arisen, and he intended to make the most of it. Despite his thoughts to the contrary on that heady summer day, the seventeen-year-old boy did not yet entirely live up to the grandiose nature of his name. In looks certainly, he was far from impressive. He was tall, yet gangly, and had waist length red hair and the incredibly wispy beginnings of a beard, which was a very recent addition. Despite its wispiness, which his friends ignored out of respect for him, he’d become rather attached to the way it looked and so had decided not to shave if off when he had the time for such an activity after the frantic rush of the NEWT exam season. In his piecing blue eyes it was clear he, as well as the rest of the school, knew he had passed with flying colours. Albus was on the way to greatness, and this summer would be the beginning, he just knew it.  

Currently, however, he was not doing anything particularly extraordinary, although he would have argued with anyone who said that it was not intellectually stimulating to some extent. He was packing. Well, attempting to, with the growing realisation that he was going to have to improve the spell increasing the size of the innards of his trunk to accommodate the many booked he seemed to have acquired during the academic year, as well as the periodicals, journals, notebooks, papers and various other trappings of the academic lifestyle he intended to pursue. _After this year … this year he was determined to be young, to travel, for a few brief moments, to actually be free._ An hour or so more packing, one more breakfast here, a brief trip to the train station and then he was off! Off into the world! A world he intended to change!


	2. Chapter 2- Later- 1st July 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hogwarts breakfast. And a bad afternoon.

Walter Scott- _‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, … when first we practice to deceive.’_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 ‘Just one more hour to go until we’re free.’ A mousey-brown haired boy stage whispered to his companions, a look of relief and longing intertwining across his rather plain features. It was a sentiment shared by most of those dining in the Great Hall that morning and was, perhaps, the main contributing factor to the rather chaotic scene, along with the large amounts of sweets, caffeine and, by certain elements of the Seventh Year, alcohol which had been consumer in the various, and completely spontaneous, parties in all of the Common Rooms, and some of the dormitories before that. That, and the heat of course, which seeped through with the sun through the high windows and made everyone uncomfortable, unfocused and irritable; causing them to think longingly of home where they could just lay in the shade with some ices, rather than being stuck in sticky, crowded classrooms. A sentiment which had, in the last few days, overtaken the usual unwillingness to leave the castle and friends.

The mousey-haired, rather whispy boy, whose untucked shirt and slightly rumpled robes gave a distinct impression of distractedness, was seated halfway down the Gryffindor table with those Gryffindor Seventh Years who were beginning to come down in drips and drabs from the Common Room party for food, causing the scene to rapidly deteriorate. Along with his companions, an attractive dark haired blue-eyed girl, who looked rather teary, another dark-haired boy who seemed a little uncertain as to how to comfort her, and had resorted to rather ineffectual pats, and another brunette, watched with mild amusement as Professors Merrythought, Selwyn and Dippet attempted to stop two food fights, confining them before they spread ‘Prewett, if I have to repeat myself you will be in detention next year!’, confiscated a fanged frisbee- ‘Mr Black, if you do that one more time!’ They looked rather despondently around for prefects, who had decided it was too close to the end of term even to try, then called some reinforcements to stop a small duel- ‘Mr Mongomery! Mr Travers! Stop now or I will write about it on your reference if, by some miracle, you obtain jobs!’ As well as a rather lively rendition of Odo the Hero and a group of people hitting each other with Daily Prophets- ‘Miss Brown, ladies do not do things like that!’

‘Freedom for you, perhaps, Elphias.’ Sniffed Addie, the dark-haired girl. ‘You and Albus will be off travelling the world … I.. I … my mama already has about five balls, six parties and ten teas lined up for me. All day calling on dull witches, or waiting for them to call on us …’ She caught hold of the jug of pumpkin juice with long-practiced ease as Elphias sent it flying as he reached for the bacon. (Sorry, Addie!) ‘And then I’ll marry someone like them- oh Merlin … and if mama has her way it’ll be next week, she didn’t even want me to do Seventh Year! You call that freedom! I want to stay!’ Addie resumed her sniffling, and Elphias and the others looking awkward.

‘Well, Addie …’ Elphias began tentatively, gazing at an apparently fascinating jar of marmalade, his bacon rapidly disappearing. ‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think …’ Everyone around them went quiet, although a couple made frantic abort motions, at which Elphias seemed to realise his dreadful mistake.

‘No it won’t!’ She replied savagely. ‘Just because I’m a witch! I could do any job better than you, and in corsets! You, who gets to see pyramids and chimeras and- Merlin’s pants!’

‘What?!?’

Arcturus Black, a Slytherin fifth year, had lobbed a rolled Prophet at one of his friends, missed horrendously, and instead hit the milk jug beside Addie, splattering black robes white. ‘What a day! You’ve got to be joking! Scourgify! Black- you’re an idiot!’

‘Tergio may have been a better choice.’ A quite, measured voice behind them stated as Addie’s robes started to smoke slightly. ‘No, let me clear that up from the table.’

‘Head Boy to the rescue! Hey, Adeline, perhaps if you did that spell on yourself you’d become a proper pureblood and find a beau! Or maybe it’d just clean your mouth out! Or you’re complexion! Either’d be an improvement!’

‘And to think that some people like that will be unleashed on the poor unsuspecting world? Merlin’s beard, we’re doomed! Just ignore him, he’s not worth it. Anyway, he’ll probably get what he deserves soon enough. The world’s good like that.’ Something gleamed, momentarily, in the piercing blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles as the tall boy settled himself behind Elphias. ‘Everyone packed? Elphias, I packed Ancient Runes, just in case. Henry, pass me the toast? Merlin, I’m going to miss this place.’  Everyone launched at the distraction that the boy provided, all determinedly looking positive, Addie’s sniffing decreasing considerably.

‘Says the boy who has achieved, what, all outstanding NEWTS with 900% in each.’ Teased Elphias.

‘Who, according to Waffling is going to revolutionise transfiguration and become the youngest minister for magic?’ Continued Addie. ‘With what you’ve got ahead you shouldn’t be worrying … or _complaining_ … still, I know what you mean. And we must all meet up once you’ve stopped travelling, relive this a little!’

‘Just ask him out and be done with it!’

‘Kindly shut up, Black!’ Black turned away, grumbling slightly, but not daring to continue the argument with all the teachers circling around. ‘All of you- stop it! None of us have any idea what we have got and I’m sure in the Transfiguration paper-‘ The others all dissolved into simultaneous, raucous laughter as Albus turned a bright shade of red.

‘Just promise me you’ll write.’ Said Addie, suddenly serious. ‘I’ll need anything to help to alleviate the boredom. And, I implore you, please try not to make me too jealous with all the tales of your adventures.’

A chorus of ‘I promise’s and sighs followed Addie’s comment, and, after a near miss involving an owl, an engorgement charm from a nearby group, and five Ravenclaws, the group decided that it was time to go, taking one final look around the hall, then walking out in preparation to board the carriages.

‘Wait a second.’ Albus muttered something as they paused by the double doors. Arcturus Black shrieked, and they all went out laughing, and were still laughing when they boarded the carriages for their final journey on the Hogwarts Express. As the carriages clattered off Addie stared critically at her friends, leaning back against the lumpy, straw-stuffed seat, and said gently- ‘Albus, my dear, it’s because we greatly admire you that I am saying this, we’re- I’m-‘ She corrected after catching sight of Elphias’ glare ‘I’m still not convinced by the beard-‘

-

Meanwhile hundreds of miles away, a boy with golden curls was striding down a dingy, darkened corridor, lit only by guttering candles, a small smile curling his lips. His plan had worked almost perfectly. _Almost … but almost never got anyone anywhere._ Ideally, he’d really required a year more here, a few months at any rate, a few months to research more, do some more preparations, gain some more support … learn a little more. Still, it could have been a lot worse … after all, if he was sent to Tante Bagshot’s he was a lot closer to finding … them. The Peverells had lived in Godric’s Hollow after all, and it was rumoured one of them was buried there, according to some sources at any rate. Well, it wasn’t the elder wand, but it was most certainly a start … yes …

Packing had only taken a couple of minutes. If he was brutally honest, he’d packed the minute he’d been caught. He was exceedingly clever, he’d known exactly what would happen. After that he’d spent a further half an hour packing and wringing his hands, thinking. He always thought better on the move, which was perhaps why Durmstrang had been so disastrous for him, he didn’t do well sitting still. It was essential that he knew what he was doing before he re-entered that office. He had to be a step ahead. He wouldn’t show hesitation … of fear…

Afternoon, 1st July 1899, Durmstrang Institute of Magic, Scandanavia

The feeling of dread which had settled heavily in Inke’s stomach wasn’t going away. She should’ve known that something like this would happen, it wasn’t a surprise, not really. Still, the minute that owl had landed on her kitchen windowsill the feeling of sickness had overcome her. _Why now? Why me? Why couldn’t he have lasted a couple more weeks? Everything was going so well … now …_

_Am I damned?_ Inke Dobileit wondered, _for hating him. My own flesh and blood, and I recoil from him. Surely God has something to say about that._ She signed again, as she had been doing a lot that day. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried, she thought, defiantly. When she had taken him in she had done so with an open mind, completely prepared to make allowances for the boy’s undoubtedly troubled upbringing, if it could be described as un upbringing at all. _He’d been so beautiful, and I mistook that for goodness …_ With the benefit of hindsight, perhaps the fact that the boy had gone through four guardians in six years, of which he had spent the majority of five at Durmstrang, that they were some of the most level headed, patient people she knew, and that not one of them was willing to take him back, should have said something. As it was she had ignored the signs. None of her numerous attempts to reach him, to reign him in, had worked; he had come to her a brilliant, but uncontrolled and uncontrollable child, with an insatiable curiosity, and none of that had changed as he aged. She had changed more than he had. As a matter of fact, he had got worse … wilder, more curious … until his curiosity, his brilliance, his mind, had turned from complex, but ultimately light-hearted pranks and school work to … other… aspects of magic.

Then, then, Inke had known that she had made a truly terrible mistake. Her own babies were terrified of the boy, and she could not find out, or put her finger on, exactly why. Her husband barely tolerated his presence in the summer, and had been trying to foist the child on someone, anyone, else, for months. The school term time was now heaven in her house, as he was not there … But he could be so charming when he wanted to be … it disgusted her, terrified her … as, in some respects, at least, for Inke was much cleverer and more perceptive than she was generally given credit for, she knew he had won the battle he had apparently been engaged with with Inke and Johann since the day they had opened their door to him. _He should have been grateful, grateful for a new start …_ She felt guilty for getting rid of him, felt like a failure for being unable to reach him. He was the cause of all the if onlys in her head. _If only we’d taken him in sooner. If only his parents had lived, poor little schatz …_ and worst of all, _if only I’d done more … loved him more … been able to reach and redirect him from that strange, dark place his mind inhabited … If only I could make him understand …_ Inke knew it was hopeless, a waste of time to wonder, he had been too far gone when they had got him. Still, she still felt guilty, sitting there in Cheynov’s office, making plans to get rid of the young man in her care … _not least because I thought we wouldn’t have to deal with him for another couple of weeks …_

‘… Madam.’ Inke jerked in her seat, she had been so lost in her reveries that whatever the Grandmaster had just said had passed her by completely. It reminded her of being back at school, sitting in this office, reminded her of seven years of tellings off, of fear of the Grand Master, even though he looked much older, and frailer now.

‘I apologise. I am afraid I did not catch that last part.’ The concern was plain on Cheynov’s pale, lined face, which was just on the wrong side of wizened, as well as something alarmingly close to sympathy. That in itself only engorged Inke’s feelings of concern and guilt. Cheynov had been a master when Inke and Johann themselves had attended the school. Of course, they had all been younger then, but still, it was unnerving to see Cheynov looking as beaten down as he did now, as old, and he had certainly never been sympathetic … Johann always said that his left hand bore witness to that … Her main recollection of him had been when he had yelled at her until she cried hot salt tears in this very, freezing, dingy office, while she had sat on this same roughly carved dark wood, incredibly uncomfortable chair, for being out of bounds out of hours. _What Gellert did must have been worse than he wrote … oh Merlin …_

‘Completely understandable, Ma’am, given these … unfortunate … circumstances. To clarify, I was just wondering what precisely you plan to do about your ... charge.’

‘Oh, of course. My aunt, Miss Bathilda Bagshot, has agreed to take him. In England. She has little experience with young people, having no family of her own, of course, but it seems a … suitable … home for Gellert, given her academics.’ They exchanged a meaningful look, _is this really a good plan? I can’t keep him though … Oh Tante Batty, what am I preparing to do to you?_ The guilt twisted in her gut and whispered. Cheynov’s face made a gallant attempt at looking reassured, but failed miserably, managing a pained, slightly constipated, look instead.

‘Gellert seemed to know that this is what would happen. He did not seem concerned or disturbed in the slightest. It should make a nice change for the boy.’ _We both know what you mean._ At that moment, Inke felt a connection with the terror of her schooldays, which she had never expected. _He’s as petrified as me, he knows what this child could become, he wants Gellert as far from him as possible, like me._

‘He does seem to have an incredible knack for picking things up.’ _Message received, and understood, master._ ‘There is some seer blood in the family, perhaps that-‘ Inke’s reply died in her throat due to a light known at the door. _Please no,_ she cringed. Cheynov seemed to be collecting himself.

‘Come in please.’ He said in a remarkably calm voice, all things considered. There he was. Gold where Inke was dark. Tall to her short. Merry and wild where she was careworn, ageing, scared. _Why did he have to be so beautiful?_ Like the thin layer of ice on the lake in winter, that lured you in with the promise of skating, only to crack and pull you down, down into a watery grave. Yes, even wolves can be beautiful, especially those in lamb’s clothes.

‘Hallo, Tante.’ He said heartily, smiling brilliantly at her as per usual. It unnerved her, how friendly he could appear when he wanted to, how perfect his façade was. ‘I am ready to go. Luckily, everyone else was in class so packing was a lot faster.’ _Yes,_ she pondered, absently, _sometimes he could even seem truly childlike, if he had ever been … innocent, almost._

Inke collected herself again surrepticiously. ‘Gellert.’ Her voice sounded strangely high pitched. ‘We are going home first, then in two hours’ time Onkle Johann has managed to get a portkey to take you to Grosstante Bagshot’s.’ If it was possible, his smile had grown even wider, but that was one of his tics, she thought. She took an almost perverse pleasure in the knowledge of his poor English. _Serves you right!_

‘In Godric’s Hollow, ja?’ _Perhaps not a tic … but his English?_ He then turned from her to Cheynov, still grinning widely, looking slightly wild, and bid him farewell with a remarkably polite bow. _The cuckoo in the nest. The adder in the grass._ With a careless flick of his curved wand ( _another dangerous sign, her mama had always said. Twisted wand means twisted wizard, and Gellert’s wand was a spiral, case in point),_ his trunk and tawny owl ( _yet another unsuccessful attempt to connect with him; he had liked the owl though)_ appeared at his side. Then, like a perfect little gentleman, he held out his left arm to Inke, still smiling. Determined not to show weakness, she stood and smoothed her skirts gracefully before taking the proffered arm, suppressing a shiver. His uniform jacket was cold and rough, yet another thing she hadn’t missed from school. As her nephew gently guided her out of the room she could have sworn that Cheynov mouthed ‘good luck’ at her, smiling sadly, and a tad ruefully. Later, however, she was certain that she had imagined that part.

Despite her nerves, it took Inke less than ten minutes to apparate, with Gellert alongside her, back home. It didn’t really feel like home anymore, however. Physically, everything was exactly the same as she had left it, down to the last neatly arranged flower bed and intricately carved plank in the door. Still, something, something was subtly within the atmosphere, as it always was when he was around. Before entering, Inke halted them on the cool stone of the doorstep.

‘Once we go in, you go and collect anything you want from your room. If you leave anything behind by accident, just write and we will send it on. Be quiet and don’t disturb the babies, remember, children should be seen but not heard. Be quick, as well, as the portkey leaves soon. Chop, chop.’ She shooed him inside before her, and, for once, he did as instructed, dashing up the stairs. _Only a few more blessed minutes, thank Merlin and Morgana._

-

Gellert’s gaze slid distractedly around what had been his room. It was almost identical to the rooms he had occupied at his parents’, Gallus’, Lenorte’s, Lida’s … and presumably the one he would occupy at Frauline Bagshot’s … England couldn’t really be that different. Like all of his rooms, except the one at his parent’s house, which if he was honest with himself he barely remembered, it had, before he arrived, been the spare room, with a small wooden bed, basic dark carved wood washstand (with blue-patterned porcelain accessories), desk, closet and bedstand, panelled walls with various floral papers on the unpanelled bits, and pale lace curtains. Basically characterless, despite Inke’s various attempts to make it homely and comfortable, with an assortment of knickknacks and homemade colourful rugs (one of Inke’s specialties which adorned all of the family’s rooms), which, if she’d known him at all, she would have realised he couldn’t live with. He had always been told that he should be grateful to those who took him in, should love them, but how could he … he knew full well that they viewed him as a burden, and a strange one at that. It had always been that way, he had to rely on himself, anything else was a distraction. In this vein, the rugs may or may not have been destroyed in a not entirely accidental potions accident last year. Well, Inke had thought it was an accident at any rate, and that was all that mattered … he smiled slightly, Inke was so naïve.

There wasn’t that much he actually had to collect together, as most of his possessions had gone with him to Durmstrang and so were already packed and ready … he was good at packing now at any rate. He strode across the room to get a couple books, which he hadn’t dared take to Durmstrang in case they got found, from where he’d hidden them under a loose floorboard, and some old parchments and supplies from his desk. That was pretty much it. Time to go.

Until … that was when it hit him, causing the objects he was carrying to clatter to the flood, a red ink bottle smashing all over the parchments and books, ruining them, as he twisted and fell to the flood holding in a scream, in agony, tasting coppery blood as the red ink stained his jacket…

His eyes rolled back into his head and he saw … red hair, felt heat, blue skies … no eyes, … for teenagers, one of them himself, two red-headed, blue-eyed boys and a blonde girl, the two other boys were screaming at each other … but he couldn’t make out the words … a black mass was writhing in a basement room … now a city of bright, artificial lights … old parchments spread across a wooden floor … now grass, soft to the touch … now wood again … the sun dancing across them, full of dust mote … then … a phoenix … a bright smile … someone laughing as intricate spells and lights danced … then, finally, it was there- the elder wand … in his hand … a mess of curses … he was cold, so very, very cold …

Gellert jerked up, gasping painfully for breath and spitting blood, as always following these visions, his chest felt constricted, his mouth dry, his whole body aching from his fall and his head splitting open. Still, his throat felt fine, meaning he hadn’t screamed, a vision hadn’t made him do that since he was nine, only his parents had known he had them, and it was a secret he intended to keep under wraps. _Hmm, looks like this will be an interesting success of a summer. Who had all those people been?_ Gellert didn’t have much time to ponder, however, as, as he removed his stained and sweat soaked shirt in disgust, his uncle bellowed up the stairs.

‘Verdammt, Gellert, du schwein, was los? You’ve missed the bloody portkey! I can’t get another for two weeks! You’re paying for the new one! You absolute-‘ _(Ah! Back to normal then!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been an absolute horror to write, notably because my laptop decided to delete half of it, and because of exams, therefore it will probably be fiddled with later. Still, I'm loving writing this and I hope you are enjoying reading this. And they will meet in a couple of chapters time, maximum, although another chapter probably won't be posted for a couple more weeks as I need to finish my exams, which are much less fun than Hogwarts ones! Super excited about the new Fantastic Beasts news though which inspired me to post this earlier than I had planned! Please comment as hearing from you keeps me motivated and is really helpful! :) PS it's up to you to decide how reliable Inke is. :)


	3. 1st- 15th July 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Responsibility, an arrival, and a meeting.

_ Early July 1899- _

Two weeks, that was all it had taken for everything to change. _Two wretched weeks._ Sitting at his desk, in the room that had been his since he was ten, in the little cottage he had fought so hard to escape, Albus was questioning how it had all come to this. _Everything had been going so well…_

A fortnight before Albus had been sitting in the common room of the Leaky Cauldron with Elphias, relishing the prospect of their imminent departure. With that in mind he had been able to ignore the fact that the pub was not one of his favourite places with its crush of people, including an unfortunate number of people from his own year, out to celebrate freedom, whom he was not particularly keen on running into, even if one ignored the smoke and the noise, _‘If I have to hear Odo the Hero one more time, I may go mad’_. They, however, had managed to secure a small oasis of calm in the form of a little wooden table in an alcove facing onto a muggle street, watching the world go by, marvelling at the new inventions the muggles had come up with- _‘They are called automobiles, apparently,’_ and discussing the prospective wonders of Egypt, their first destination, _‘I bet we’ll see a Sphinx’,_ and Greece, their second, _‘Apparently they don’t even have a ban on the breeding of chimeras, and as for the alchemists, well-‘_ Admittedly, the chat was very much in the abstract as neither of them had actually travelled out of Great Britain before, nor was particularly close to anyone who had, but nonetheless it had still been immensely enjoyable. Two butter beers and a firewhiskey in and the talk had turned to dragons, another drink, and then to the future.

_‘You haven’t got anything to worry about. You could do anything, and people would be falling over each other to employ you.’_ Elphias had said, rather sadly, his eyes lowered as he called for yet another drink. _‘It’s the rest of us.’_ Albus had just been about to say something to comfort his friend, and then had planned to distract him with dinner, which consisted of a slightly dubious looking soup, when it had happened. An all-too-familiar tawny owl had landed between them, narrowly avoiding upending Elphas’ next drink, and had promptly held out its leg to present Albus with the letter.

He had known it was from Miss Bagshot even before he had opened it, with a feeling of foreboding he could not quite shake. Optimistically, he had hoped that she was wishing him luck for his trip, realistically, he was almost certain he had not told her about it. ‘ _An accident,’_ it had said, _‘tragic. Quick. Your mother. Dead.’ Ariana._ The unthinkable had happened. Although the whole family had been aware of the fact that one day his sister’s magic would explode out, and hurt someone, the only thought in his head had been- ‘ _Why now?’_ For that Albus knew that, if he was a muggle and believed in such things, he was going to hell.

Elphias was staring at him, confused and flushed with alcohol. And Albus had known what he had to say next, he had known, Miss Bagshot had attempted to soften the blow but still he knew, this was the end. There was no money, and no one to take care of Aberforth and Ariana but him. He had to go home. When the words finally came, Elphias had just gazed at him with a sort of detached horror, and worst of all, pity, before asking if this meant that they would no longer be travelling together. It had taken all of Albus’ finely honed self-control not to scream. _For Merlin’s sake, think! Of course not!_ But it was not Elphias’ fault, he came from a perfect, picture book home, and was tired, and drunk.

‘No,’ he’d managed to say, his voice sounding odd, detached, and far too calm, given the circumstances. ‘I’ve got to organise the funeral, and Aberforth is too young and my sister too delicate for someone not to be at home taking care of them … someone they know.’ Albus had not mentioned the money, as Elphias would be able to work that out for himself, or what had actually happened to his mother. That, Elphias did not need to know. Or they would take her, and his mother’s sacrifice would be for nothing. _Maybe it would be better though?_ But he could not do it. This marked the end of all the dreaming. A reality check of the cruellest thought. _I’m the man of the house now, I’m not like you anymore. … I’m not a child._ He had not cried, not then. Again, he supposed that that made him a terrible person, but instead of grief there had merely been emptiness, and then anger. Anger at the unfairness of it all, at the world, at Aberforth, for being too young, at Ariana, for being the agent of their mother’s death, at Father, for attacking the muggles, at Mother, for dying and, at that moment, anger at Elphias, for having everything he wanted. People had begun to stare across the hazy bar then, as Elphias had shook him, fear in his eyes when his friend did not respond for a while.

‘I’ll come.’ Elphias had later volunteered, as expected, as Albus stared at him, viewing the new void between them. ‘Any assistance you need that I can offer, you have.’ _The only way you could help would be to conjure someone to take my place, or age Aberforth, or reverse time. But you’re trying, at least, I guess._ Part of him had been thankful, another part had just wanted Elphias to go away.

Later on, he supposed that he must have thanked his friend, and said other suitable nothings, or perhaps asked him to do something, maybe get his trunk, as the other young man had wandered off, only to return an hour later with their things for the journey to Godric’s Hollow, the most boring place on Earth. After that everything had become a little blurred, due to grief, if he was kind, or business, if he was more realistic, until after the funeral with only moments of exquisite, absolute clarity which he would later be able to recall.

There had been Aberforth, home early from school, and as surly as ever, begrudging and judging poorly everything his brother did…. The house, with half of the inside walls blasted away, which had to be repaired … His mother, with those awful marks, _a closed casket then, or everyone will know…_ The frantic scramble for money for new mourning clothes … the old ones did not fit … The neighbours with their endless stews and sympathies, who always tried, not particularly discreetly, to get a peak into the reclusive Dumbledores’ house before they were successfully shooed away with a polite ‘thank you’ or ‘We appreciate your kindness at this time’ or ‘I would invite you in but-‘ paired with some ready-made, or quickly improvised, excuse, and a firm handshake and a tight-lipped smile, which always worked … Bathilda Bagshot, who had been irreplaceable with her usual odd combination of nosiness, irrepressibility and efficiency in addition to her usual rather vague manner. She had definitely been, as ever, helpful and supportive, but recently he had been avoiding her, as she kept on insisting on asking him what he intended to do, thereby reminding him of what he had lost, couldn’t now have. And he had no idea how to answer, what he was going to do, causing her visits always leading to feelings of vague panic.

And there had been her, of course. Upon arriving home she had just been sitting there, in the rubble, humming quietly to herself. It was not her fault, rationally Albus knew that. He liked her, loved her, she was his little sister after all, and really be quite sweet … sometimes … but, nonetheless, she was still the root cause of all of this. He did love her, he really did … he tried… but sometimes it was hard, especially when she sat there, blank and docile, her formerly sparkly blue eyes, the former liveliness of which were now a distant memory, expressionless and dead … the emptiness only marred by the occasional placid smile. It was agonising. And now she was entirely his responsibility … his problem.

It had been dusky … he later recalled … the roses that his mother had so carefully tended had been beautiful that evening. The cool flint path and the porch welcome oases from the heat. Then, something had happened, and Ariana had begun to cry as she sat there on the floor. The tears had run gently down her face, and her blonde hair had been covered in dust and mussed around her shoulders. _She knew what had happened, what she had done, and for once it had actually looked as if she had understood …_

The funeral was what he remembered the most distinctly; it had been one of those rare, beautiful, hazy English summer days, a week after Mother’s death. The perfect weather had, in his memory, jarred painfully with the sombre occasion. Not many people had been in attendance; it was better that way, fewer questions, but somehow made everything a hundred times worse. There had been himself and Aberforth, decked out reluctantly in mourning colours despite the suffocating heat, and trying not to look as though he was squirming, and who had left early to check on Ariana. Albus had given her a sleeping draught- it was kinder, he had thought, it was not as if she could attend anyway. Albus himself had stood completely and utterly still in silent dignity, trying to look like the eldest, like the one in charge. Then there had been Miss Bagshot, with pity in his eyes, an expression he had found that he could not bear, he felt desolate enough himself, without others adding to it. There had been the officiator; Elphias, packed and ready for his ( _their)_ trip, and those few of the village people whom Mother had not offended in some way. That had been the hardest, most awful, bit, all of her life lived, and only those few remembered her with any form of affection, and most knew nothing of what she had dedicated her life to.

He had chosen a marble gravestone, despite the expense, which gleamed in the sunshine. The ceremony must have lasted for at least half an hour, but it seemed to be over in mere seconds. Tea had been organised by Miss Bagshot, at her house, where there had been cakes and yet more sympathies. He still wanted to scream. Then the lady of the house herself had asked him the one question he still had no answer for: what now? He knew he had to think ahead and plan. But it is hard to disregard certainties, such as the one he had had before, that he would go on the world tour, then get a ministry job. Now? What was there now? _Ariana._ That was the only answer to that now.

-

So here he was, stuck in the tiny cottage. Wasted and trapped whilst Elphias travelled in Greece, or was it Egypt, or perhaps the Ottoman Empire, as a week had now passed. Addie would be off dancing or having tea somewhere respectable with her mother and cousins. Henry and the others would have jobs, engagements, interviews, dinners … anything and everything he didn’t. His friends had written, on and off, and he had, so far at any rate, though he was unsure as to how long he would be able to cope with continuing to do so, diligently, but increasingly unenthusiastically, replied. Their lives were interesting and in motion. He just was not cut out for this, he wished he was, but was becoming increasingly aware that the opposite was the case. He could not be the perfect parent and older brother his siblings needed, no matter how much he tried. _And they said I was good at everything I tried,_ he was not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, or both. Each day was the same- arguments with Aberforth, calming Ariana, writing to get money, reading, and boredom. They never really spoke. His siblings did not understand, or think, not really. Every day was more and more frustrating, he was idle and did not cope well with that, before he had always had things to do and places to be. He could not even attend conferences. And everything would continue to be the same into the indefinite future. _Something must happen._ _Anything. But it won’t._ Sighing, he got back to work.

_ 15th July 1899- _

Ralph Waldo Emerson, a muggle transcendentalist around the middle of the century, had written that _‘the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be,’_ a quote which, considering that a muggle had written it, Gellert had become quite attached to. Someone had mentioned it once in a passing conversation at Durmstrang, someone who had not really, in Gellert’s view, understood what it actually meant. Still, he was grateful to the unnamed person who had introduced it to him as it was always a comforting thought.

The jolting motion of the portkey invariably made him feel sick. Still, he supposed at least it signalled his final escape from the tediousness of Inke. They’d waved him off, her and her husband, barely able to hide their glee. Admittedly, he had perhaps not been the easiest with them, and had been in the same boat when it came to feelings at the time of their departure, but it had still been a little hurtful. Which was why he remembered Emerson, and had reminded himself that what they thought really did not matter in the slightest. _They are small, and I am not._

When the spinning and jolting finally stopped, and the nausea abated causing him to finally be able to open his eyes, he was in a small, cottage garden. The light was first, causing his eyes to smart as they tried to adjust, then the wall of heat, boiling him in his dark, woollen clothes; it had been cool in Prussia, overcast, and in his opinion much more reasonable and civilised. _But I must remember, Prussia contained Inke, and England does not, and therefore all is good._ Here there was the opportunity for a fresh start. The first step on his next journey. It was not a particularly impressive step but it was a start, and he was going to take it.

He looked around again, and his heart dropped. _This is shit._ The garden was small, homely, and neatly kept, but in a slightly, oddly, uncontrolled sort of way with a myriad of insects swooping lazily over beds of multicoloured roses, and arbours. There were those plants that older people used in medicines all set out in neat little rectangular beds, gently trimmed, juxtaposed with beds of wildflowers and slightly yellowing grass, all wilting in the midday heat. The paths, where there were any, consisted of roughly hewn slate slabs, one of which was slightly raised to reveal an old well, which he was going to have to remember existed, if he was to be protected from serious injury.

As per usual, no one was waiting for him, and he did not really feel like heading towards to cottage he could see through the gap between a couple of fruit trees- apples, perhaps. He would most likely be intruding anyway; so instead he settled himself down on one of the benches to wait. His luggage he left where it had landed, right in the middle of a bed of something that smelt like lavender, but had thorns, and which he’d had to spend a good few minutes painfully extracting himself from. The portkey, an old jar, lay still beside his trunk, the mystic, reassuring blue glow now completely gone. His surroundings definitely did not look promising. _Shit._

After just enough time had passed for him to consider getting a book out of his trunk (and to think that he really needed to persuade someone to get him a watch for his seventeenth), weighing his boredom against his unwillingness to re-enter what he now called the devil-bush, a woman came bustling down the path. She most definitely was not what he had been expecting. Bathilda Bagshot was an incredibly small, stout, middle-aged woman, with mousey, fly-away hair with a seemingly energetic disposition, by the way she was bustling. She had clearly never been conventionally pretty but had something about her, an intelligence, or just an air, he supposed, and it was that, and only that, which caused him to actually believe that she was the author of ‘A History of Magic.’ The only thing they seemed to share was their eye colour, an odd grey. Her dress was old-fashioned and purple … _mourning? But for whom?_ If it had been one of the family, Inke would have informed him … _unless it was Inke? Please?_

‘Dear,’ she beamed when she reached him. _Not Inke then._ The expression in itself was surprising, as he had expected her to be more wary, after reading Inke’s letter which he had supposed to be a punishing indictment of all his flaws. _Then again, Inke’s did want to get rid of me, and Tante Bagshot probably wants company, from what Inke said._ ‘Welcome! I did not realise you had arrived, or I should have been out here to greet you far sooner.’ She was going to offer him biscuits, he knew it. _Though if tea is on the cards, perhaps the conversation will move to history … and most people like young people to show an interest in their work._ ‘Why did you not come in and say something?’ she continued to exclaim, with increasing enthusiasm, as shown by her use of gestures. _Did she say something in between?_ It was, he decided, actually quite disconcerting. No one was usually this enthused on seeing him.

‘Guten Tag, Groβ-Tante Bagshot.’ It always helped to be polite, at least at first, until one knew where one stood, or so he had been told; though he did manage to deftly avoid her attempts to kiss his cheek- that was one step too far, and avoid speaking English, which he saw as another success.

‘Yes- no, ja. You do speak English? Your aunt wrote? If not things may be a little difficult. Not impossible, no, but difficult.’ Frown-lines creased her brow as she continued her internal monologue, out loud. She sighed, as if speaking English was, in her mind, an essential part of one’s education, without which one could not hope to live. Without giving him a moment to respond, and plastering a smile back on her face, she launched back in. ‘My German is passable, you know, for the niceties at any rate, but not for everyday life.’ Gellert was becoming distracted trying to work out when she actually breathed. ‘But your aunt told me you are quite intelligent,’ _Quite?_ ‘So I am sure that we’ll find some way to manage,’ _Breath ‘_ and that you will pick up English pretty fast. Now what is the phrase- yes- verstehen Sie mich?’ _If my English was terrible, right now I would be very confused,_ he thought. But at least she was being polite, and he was surprised she spoke any German at all, as according to what he had heard most English people only bothered with their native tongue. _I shall have to be careful with what I write._

‘Ein bisschen.’ He tried, ideally attempting to avoid actually having to speak English just yet. If he was willing to admit it to himself, German was comforting, and he was not yet ready to give that up. Miss Bagshot, however, looked confused.

‘Sorry, dear, but English, please?’

‘A little?’ He hated the way he somehow made it a question, and had to resort to a gesture when she still gazed at him blankly. _You don’t need to know how much I understand, well, can read at any rate._ Even so, his accent was painfully noticeable, even for him, something he would have to look at.

‘Good, good. Well, you will most certainly improve your grasp of the language, at least, whilst you are here.’ She smiled, looking him over with something that was dangerously close to affection. ‘You are a little skinny, need feeding more. As for the English, no one here, in Godric’s Hollow, that is, speaks German, so you will have to learn English.’ Her smile had moved from affection to sympathy, which was good, that could be used, and she seemed to presume he would integrate, that he wanted to, which he supposed he did, at least temporarily. Things were on the up, better than he had initially expected at any rate, especially since she did not seem like any form of disciplinarian.

‘Well come on then,’ she said, seeming to finally notice that they were still standing under the midday sun in the garden, and that Gellert felt close to heatstroke. ‘Let’s not stand around here all day watching the flowers bloom, as lovely as they are. Do you garden, dear? I suppose not, most young people do not, I find,’ _breath._ She continued happily with her monologue, still apparently requiring no input from him other than the occasional not, which was even better than expected, as it meant she would be unlikely to disturb him. ‘-still, if it is not too much of an inconvenience I will require you to do some lifting and occasional spell work, when I am otherwise engaged or unable to. You are of age in Germany?’ _Breath, avoid the well._ ‘Yes, yes, you would be, at sixteen. A little young, in my opinion, but I’m sure the government knows what they are doing. Got your want? Good, unusual design isn’t it? I’ll show you to your room, you must be exhausted, still, perhaps not, you are young. No, honey, don’t worry, I’ll get that.’ With surprising speed and ease she levitated his luggage, and propelled both it and him to down the path she had come from to the back door of the house.

It was a strange, hotchpotch of a house, built originally perhaps a couple of centuries or more ago by a family of reasonably well-off farm labourers. Gellert supposed it must have been added to in the intervening years, as, although it seemed to have retained its basic, structural integrity, thereby making it completely different from the houses he was used to at home, with tis gently peaking thatched roof and second floor which jutted scarily over the ground floor by at least a yard. The walls may once have been wattle and daub but the black and white seemed to have been repaired with bricks in places, and all of it needed refreshing. The whole house also seemed to slump rather alarmingly to the left, in the way old houses sometimes do. Due to its age, appearance, and the general demeanour and apparent habits of Frauline ‘call me Aunt, or Tante, please dear,’ Bathilda, Gellert had grave concerns about whether there would be running water, one of the muggles’ better inventions, and one which, miraculously, Durmstrang had actually adopted. There was one positive, however, as the house seemed to be under attack by a queer mixture of ivy, roses, honeysuckle and dirigible plums, which showed some promise for climbing, depending on where his bedroom was, and how wide the window actually opened.

The garden was surprisingly long, meaning that by the time they arrived at the wooden backdoor, Gellert was seriously considering just lying down in the shade of the second floor overhand and dying. A feeling which was added to by the fact that Miss-Tante Bathilda seemed to have misplaced the key, if the way in which she was patting her pockets and muttering to herself was any clue. ‘I knew I had it somewhere- you do look a little flushed. Ah-ha!’

Once they finally, _finally_ , got in, everything was pitch black, due to the light outside. The kitchen, for that was what Gellert presumed this room was, was blissfully cool, but when his eyes adapted Gellert was not particularly reassured, or impressed. It was small, haphazardly strewn with ingredients, creations, which seemed to range from edible to, well- building materials ( _no elf then)_ , pans and roughly hewn wooden furniture. The walls were covered in an eclectic variety of wallpapers and cut-outs from magazines, which also covered the available surfaces along with books and papers of all kinds, although, in this room, mostly related to running a household. He was pretty sure he could even see some muggle ones in there. And sadly, as he had suspected, there was a hand water pump attached to the porcelain bowl. The only attempt actually made at any form of modernity was a china filled dresser in one corner and something which may potentially have been a gaslight on one wall.

‘Your room is through that door, up the stairs, second on the left. We can have some tea and a chat once you are settled in, and then perhaps you can have a little look round. Though perhaps a walk through the village should wait until tomorrow, you do still look awfully flushed- there’s some water upstairs on your dresser. Of course- it will probably be frightfully boring for someone your age but-‘

‘I am sure it will be … herrlich? … lovely?’ He interrupted, unable to take much more. _First thing that needs work- English. Why did I not focus on this more before?_ He knew why, because he had not intended for this to happen, but it was still a little depressing, as usually he was good, and better than everyone else, at whatever he tried. _Still, it’s an inspiration to work._

‘-Bathroom is next to your room. There is running water up there-‘ _Thank Merlin for small mercies, and indoor bathrooms._ ‘I just have not yet got around to having someone install it in here.’ She looked around, as if expecting a plumber to magically appear, one didn’t. ‘Oh! I have just remembered! Dear me- perhaps I should cancel, but it is a little late and I want to give him a break, poor dear-‘ _What? Who?_ ‘Don’t tarry too long up there, please honey, we have got a guest coming over. All clear and understood?’ He nodded, now slightly in shock; the last thing he needed was a visitor. What he really wanted was to speak to Bathilda about history, not entertain some probably sad, useless and boring villager. ‘Lovely.’

The house was surprisingly large on the inside, with at least two parlours and a dining room as well as the kitchen on the ground floor, which Gellert peaked into as he passed. The stairs were narrow, and it was a challenge getting the trunk up, whilst avoiding the paintings (landscapes) and gaslights (one of which may have gotten slightly chipped). Everything was decorated in floral patterns, from the walls to the carpets over the wooden floor. As for his room, well it was opposite the library, which was a definite bonus, but other than that it was almost identical to every other room he had had. The only different was that there was a large amount of space for books, and a view out of the front of the cottage. That in itself was not particularly interesting, as opposite there was only another, very similar, house and a little dust road heading off to what he presumed was the centre of the village, but there was a lot of ivy around the window, which opened wide enough for a young man to climb through, meaning that he could, at least, get out whenever he wanted.

After changing, freshening up, and drinking more water than he had previously believed possible, in an attempt to ward off heat stroke, though he feared it was already too little too late in relation to sunburn, Gellert snuck across the hall to his great-aunt’s library, the only part of the house he was genuinely interested in. She had not forbidden him access, and he had no intention of going down for tea with a side dish of stranger, so he did not feel any guilt whatsoever in entering. It was spectacular- the room was one of the largest in the house, and had probably in the original design of the house been two bedrooms, but it was not so full of books, shelves, parchments and papers that the floor and walls were barely visible. There was even a ladder. In the centre of the room there was a matched set of leather arm chairs, one of which Gellert settled in to, once he had had a little look around the room and found a promising looking volume on medieval wizardry in the local area.

Half an hour later, and Gellert was well and truly ensconced in his great-aunt’s library. This had made everything else worthwhile. Although he had been unable, so far, to find any reference to the Hallows in his book, he was not in the least disheartened; the book was fascinating, and, he suspected, unique, and there were hundreds, if not thousands, more in here yet to read, and he had the whole summer, if not longer if his great-aunt decided not to send him back to school, to research. _Absolutely perfect._ Admittedly, he had been slowed slightly by the language barrier, but was learning a lot, and fast, his mind actually challenged for the first time since, according to his estimation, his third year at school.

‘Gellert!’ _Perhaps if I ignore her, she will go away._ That strategy had always worked with Inke and the others. He went back to his book, slightly irritated at having been disturbed, curling himself further into the armchair, and stroking one of the large ginger cats which his aunt apparently owned and which seemed to have become quire attached to him.

‘Gellert! Where are you?’ A minute or so later the call came again, but this time she sounded mildly irritated. He, however, had no intention of spending an unprofitable, boring afternoon with her pasty, undoubtedly elderly friends, who would likely spend quality time telling him how he needed to eat more. And, although he was not yet ready to fully admit this to himself, he was a little tired. Then a truly horrifying thought struck him, his great-aunt may have invited some young woman over who she was going to try to marry him off to, or the such like. Shuddering as he banished that unpleasant revelation, he continued to read and had just turned the page when-

‘Gellert! Dear! It is time for tea! You need to eat!’

‘Thank you, Tante,’ he yelled back, she sounded as though she was at the bottom of the stairs. ‘but I am not particularly hungry. The journey wore me out.’ _Not a true lie._ ‘Can I not just-‘

‘Nonsense, you are a young man, of course you are hungry- sorry, dear, I think I may have to go and get him- stop being silly, Gellert.’ She exclaimed as he heard the tell-tale steps on the stairs, followed by the slam of the door as she marched in. ‘Come on down now,’ she said, slightly more quietly and gently, more persuasively ( _as if that will work on me)_ , ‘there is someone I want you to meet.’ _Oh no, a prospective fiancée for sure._ ‘Come on.’ When he showed no signs of movement, she grabbed one of the tomes off a nearby shelf and swatted at him until he finally, grumbling, followed her downstairs, too tired to argue, and wanting to keep her onside, for the first day at least.

The parlour was unlike any other room in the house. It had working gas lighting and was elegantly cluttered with the latest fashion in arts and crafts pieces, and even had a couple of moving photographs depicting various family members, as well as the seemingly essential landscapes. The window was large and open, seemingly attempting to tempt in some non-existent breeze and there was a pleasant view over the front garden.

Sitting in one of the arm chairs, and looking comfortable, like a regular visitor, but still a little out of place, as they were not whom Gellert had been expecting, was the guest. He, for it was a he, was another teenage boy. _Well, this is unexpected._ The boy was very tall and pale, with a hint of freckles spread across his nose and cheekbones. He clearly did not go outdoors much, rather like Gellert himself, who only really went outside to read, unless forced. Then another, rather disconcerting thought hit him, as he realised with a sinking feeling that perhaps Tante Bathilda meant for him to befriend this youth, who probably shared none of his interests and was some form of country bumpkin. The boy’s hair was long and shockingly red, a rarity in Germany, and which clashed rather horribly with his aunt’s rose-themed room. His eyes were an equally startling blue, and looked intelligent at any rate, and for a moment, alarmingly, seemed to see right through him with a fearful power of perception. The expression in them was completely, and unusually for Gellert, unreadable and yet, _and yet,_ strangely familiar.

Alarmed, Gellert looked away first, focusing instead on the fact that, like him, the boy also wore a rather shabby shirt and trousers with light robes, in an attempt to defend against the heat. His features, when Gellert finally decided to look back up at his face, were pleasant, in a slender way, but he was not by any stretch of the imagination particularly handsome, but, like Bathilda, had a strange quality which Gellert could not name but which draw one to him nonetheless. He appeared to be a year or so older than Gellert himself, according to his estimation. His companion also seemed to be rather unimpressed by Gellert, which was unusual, and slightly offensive, in itself.

When the other young man stood for introductions, he towered rather depressingly over Gellert, as he had suspected the boy would. He surveyed Gellert again from behind glasses, his eyes still as alarming as ever. ‘Well, well, boys.’ Bathilda began. ‘Gellert, this is Albus Dumbledore.’ _Even the name is oddly familiar._ ‘A neighbour. He finished Hogwarts this year.’ _And no tour?_ ‘And has written some rather interesting articles …’ _That Albus Dumbledore._ Gellert had read a few of the articles earlier that year, but had not realised that the author was still in school. _Perhaps you are interesting then._ ‘Well, I suppose he will tell you all about them later as he has very kindly agreed to show you around a bit.’ _By the looks of it, he thinks he is doing you a favour._ Gellert was determined to change that. ‘Albus, this is my grand-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. As I told you, he is living with me at the moment. He attended Durmstrang … for a time …’ _Ah. So you didn’t tell him? Worried he would say no?_ ‘There are not many other young men in the area.’ Bathilda continued, slightly nervously. ‘So it will be good for the two of you to get to know one another, though I am sure you will get along splendidly- you have a lot in common after all.’

Albus held out a hand politely, in the English way, and Gellert took it.

‘Pleased to meet you, I am sure, Mr Grindelwald.’ He smiled slightly, almost mockingly, and had a soft, gentle voice.

‘Likewise.’ The boy’s eyes flicked to the book Gellert was still holding.

‘Is that-‘ Bathida had settled down in a rocking chair in the corner and begun to knit, apparently satisfied that her charge was entertained for the time being. It was then that Gellert remembered the vision he had had on the day when he had missed the portkey.

‘Yes.’ He smiled as he and Albus settled themselves chairs opposite one another and both helped themselves to tea and biscuits. Things were a lot better. This may even be an interesting and profitable summer.

Ralph Waldo Emerson had also said that ‘the only way to have a friend is to be one’ and Gellert, for the first time in his life, intended to have one, or at least a companion as, also for the first time, Gellert had a suspicious feeling that he might have someone approaching an equal. Albus Dumbledore was going to be important, Gellert just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was way longer than I expected it to be- and too far longer to publish due to a slight laptop-tea incident- which miraculously the laptop survived. Again please review so I know what works and what doesn't. Surprisingly I am finding Gellert easier to write than Albus- which I worry says something about me :0   
> I hope you are enjoying this and the next chapter should be up pretty soon- though I probably should update one of my other fics which I have been avoiding by writing this ;)  
> Please review etc as unfortunately I'm not psychic- though that's probably a good thing :)   
> PS- the German is good day, do you understand me? and lovely/delightful depending on which translation you use.


	4. Chapter 4- 15th-16th July 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First and second meetings, and a couple of new characters.

_ 15th July 1899- Afternoon- Albus’ POV- Miss Bagshot’s Cottage, Godric’s Hollow, England- _

When Miss Bagshot had invited Albus over to tea, he had been pretty certain as to what to expect, having been going over there weekly during the holidays since he was thirteen. Usually, he would arrive promptly at three in the afternoon, presuming that all was calm at home, knock once and then be invited in warmly. Miss Bagshot would maintain a near constant monologue (which was pleasant in an odd sort of way, even though, in order to stay sane, he would tune most of it out) on the theme of how skinny he was looking ( _‘same as your brother! It’s as if you don’t eat!’)._ Then he would sit down on exactly the same, slightly sagging, rose damask chair in the parlour, and she would pass him a cup of tea from the same rose tea set. Whilst Miss Bagshot was setting out the cakes he would find something to compliment her on, whether the décor or the garden, and she would smile contentedly. Only once he had managed to force down a third helping of everything (‘ _growing boys always need food!’)_ , would they continue on to the next, unpleasant, stage of the conversation.

At that point, Miss Bagshot would always rearrange everything on the table, in an attempt to avoid eye contact, as she inquired, as delicately as possible, and in a far softer voice than usual, her face full of pity, as to Albus’ health, his mother’s (when she had still been with them), then Aberforth’s, and finally, Ariana’s. Also looking down, he would always reply that his health, and that of his brother, were splendid but _‘My sister is, alas, still delicate.’ As if that will actually ever change._ Once that had been said, the air always seemed to clear, and once his hostess had stated her health was, as usual, _‘well enough, considering,’_ the conversation would travel down more interesting avenues. Tea forgotten, Miss Bagshot’s progress on her work would be discussed ( _‘slow, dear, but fascinating’)_ and any new discoveries she had made in her tomes, some of which she would lend to him if asked, and whether she was planning on publishing any articles soon. Albus would then fill her in on what he himself was doing, be it dragon’s blood or alchemy, which gave a pleasant illusion of activity for the sake of academia rather than necessity. Finally, just as the sun began to dip, they would discuss all the magical developments of the past few months before, after a couple of hours _(of peace),_ Albus would make his excuses and go. He would usually be back the next week, as Miss Bagshot seemed to like the company and it was a chance to … _(escape?)_ , a thought which Albus was not proud of.

He had, quite wrongly as it happened, presumed that today the usual formula would be followed. Before he arrived, that was…

Miss Bagshot had seemed incredibly flustered when he arrived, taking care to jump the broken paving stone in the path, which had presented itself through her behaviour becoming even more erratic than usual. She had kept peering up the stairs, leaving him standing like some form of ornament on the doorstep before she actually seemed to remember he was there. She had then knocked over the hat stand in the hall as she shut the door behind him, apologising profusely when it barely missed his foot. They had, somehow, managed to enter the dining room rather than the parlour, before Miss Bagshot had realised her mistake. Albus’ initial bemusement was changing rapidly to a vague feeling of panic. _She didn’t even use her usual monologue, something truly awful must have happened._

Once in the parlour, she had proceeded to pour out tea for three, _hopefully a mistake,_ but which he decided not to mention due to her obvious agitation, deciding instead to keep his head down and drink the proffered tea. _Unless it’s that Miss Anderson again … please no._ A minute or so later, Miss Bagshot had sighed loudly in apparent frustration before marching determinedly off, shouting something in the hall before going up the stairs. And then she’d come back … _with him …_

In normal circumstances, Albus prided himself of being a reasonably good judge of people, but when it came to Miss Bagshot’s grand-nephew, he was at an utter loss. The other boy was obviously, as evidenced by his accent, from one of the Germanic or Scandinavian, or possibly even one of the Baltic states, which was surprising in itself, as he had presumed Miss Bagshot to be as English as they come. He was obviously also reasonably well off as all his clothes were new, making Albus feel horrendously underdressed. He was approximately Albus own age, but slightly shorter, and a tad stockier. His hair was a mass of blond curls, which seemed to keep getting in his eyes by the way he kept fidgeting with it. It gave him a rather wild look, which Albus knew he himself definitely didn’t have, and which was not helped by the mischievous gleam in his clear, grey eyes, which seemed filled with an unintelligible amusement and intelligence. Other than that, all Albus could really think was that he looked nothing whatsoever like Miss Bagshot.

There was, of course, the other boy’s face, which Albus had deliberately not been looking at, for fear of catching the other boy’s eye and having to make conversation for an extended period of time. _His face …_ the other boy was slightly tanned, though that was offset but the obvious flush of oncoming sunburn across his cheeks and nose, and, despite the fact that he had a hint of dark circles under his eye, was … _very nice looking_ … with well-defined cheekbones and plump lips. At that thought, Albus firmly schooled his features into apparent disinterred … although he had worried for a moment that the other had noticed him looking for a tad too long. Though the boy’s expression only really seemed to change from mild amusement to something resembling irritation when Albus stopped looking. _A contradiction in itself._ … But before Albus could delve too deeply into that mystery, Miss Bagshot had introduced them and the moment was _(thankfully)_ broken.

Pleasantries were exchanged with perfect politeness, and more tea handed around. Albus was, however, perfectly aware of the fact that the other boy was sizing him up, and that he was doing the same thing, to some extent. Then, suddenly and seemingly out of the blue, Gellert smiled a brilliant smile, which was impossible not to return. After that, the tension which had been in the air seeped rapidly away, replaced by a comfortable silence in which Gellert and Albus focused on their food, and Miss Bagshot on her knitting.

According to Albus’ estimation, almost ten minutes passed before the other boy broke the silence, speaking with a strong accent … _but what he said … that … that was unexpected …_

‘I have read your articles in Transfiguration Today, and the Practical Potioneer. That recent one on the question of life in transfigured objects was particularly …’ The young man seemed to struggle for a moment to find the word. ‘Insightful. But surely-‘

They seemed to lose Miss Bagshot somewhere around the fifteen minute mark, as evidenced by her glazed expression, after her offers of more tea for the both of them were rebuffed. Gellert barely even looked at her when she spoke, his gaze instead fixed rather unnervingly on Albus, a strange, feverish quality in his eyes. Miss Bagshot looked happy, however, or enough that Albus didn’t feel guilty about continuing his conversation with Gellert, that they both seemed so animated, and to be getting along so well. Truthfully, they were getting along like a cauldron on fire, Albus could not remember when he had actually met someone his own age who had knowledge and understanding of, and relevant opinions on, as many topics as the other young man seemed to. In fact, they seemed to be equals in everything from skills to intelligence. The only disruption to the conversation came in the form of Gellert having a coughing fit after attempting to drink some of the, admittedly rather overbrewed, tea, which he was apparently not used to, before discarding it, earning him a reproving look from his Great-Aunt.

Amazingly, wonderfully, the conversation carried on and on, getting increasingly detailed and pedantic. Gellert gestured rapidly, his previous apparent tiredness forgotten, his face flushing more, his eyes sparkling with an almost feverish excitement. His accent definitely became increasingly difficult to understand and his frustration more apparent when he could not find the word he wanted to express a particular theory. Albus couldn’t look away, wouldn’t. For the first time in a while he was actually useful, and interested, and in good company.

They danced from topic to topic, the verbal jousting becoming increasingly challenging. Albus himself, close to the end, actually found himself struggling a little, until … until Miss Bagshot finally put her foot down. It was getting dark and she seemed to have decided that now was the time to exert some form of authority.

‘Albus, dear,’ She said firmly, yet not unkindly. ‘Gellert must be tired after his journey. And surely-‘ _The time- Oh Merlin, the time-_

Attempting not to blush slightly in embarrassment, Albus replied, ‘Oh,’ before managing to think of something more eloquent. ‘Yes, you are quite right of course. I have to go … if I may be excused of course.’ The blond was still looking at him and Albus internally curled up at how much of a fool he was sounding and uncertain of how to improve the situation. In the end, he decided not speaking was probably best and instead stood, carefully placing his forgotten cup back into its saucer. ‘If has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Grindelwald.’ And for once he actually meant it.

‘Likewise.’ Gellert stood and they shook hands again, firm and warm. Miss Bagshot also stood, and made to escort him out. ‘Frauline-‘ Gellert, to Albus surprise, and apparently to Miss Bagshot’s as well, quickly interjected. ‘Tante – _mein Gott,_ Aunt, I mean. I insist, allow me.’ Smiling, Miss Bagshot sat back down, knitting in her hand, once again, and one of her ginger cats beginning to take up residence on her lap.

Albus turned to smile back at her. ‘Goodbye. Ad thank you for the tea. Would it also be possible, if it is convenient for your of course, for you to look through one of my articles if I drop it off here tomorrow?’

Her smile turning rather sad, she replied, ‘Of course, dear. Have a nice evening.’

They walked in silence to the front door, only breaking that state when Gellert decided to break the bounds of acceptability by grabbing Albus arm and tugging him to one side, stopping him leaving, that infectious grin on his face again. ‘I don’t suppose you would be willing to show me around a bit tomorrow. Around the village, that is? _Also,_ maybe we could speak a bit more- oh- by the way- make sure you correct me if I get anything wrong with my English. It would be … good … to talk some more. You seem interesting … like you understand …’ Gellert trailed off for a moment, apparently thinking deeply. ‘If you have time of course,’ he stated suddenly, seeming to have remembered that he needed to be polite.

Yet again, Albus was rather caught off guard by his companion, still, he only had to think of home, and his decision was already made. ‘Naturally. What time would suit you, Mr Grindelwald?’

‘Gellert, please.’

‘Gellert, then. Albus …’ He gestured at himself. ‘…me, that is.’ Willing the ground to open up and swallow him, and wondering why his usual eloquence had chosen now of all times to go on holiday, Albus mentally winced yet again at his latest spectacular show of awkwardness and ineptitude as his tongue seemed to carry on of its own accord.

The only sign of amusement in his companion was a momentary growth in his grin, though he most definintely went up in Albus estimation when he didn’t actually laugh aloud. ‘Albus,’ a trace of amusement still causing a slight lilt in his voice, ‘it has truly been a pleasure to meet you. Eight tomorrow would be convenient for me, if it suits you? Before the heat.’

‘Until then.’

‘Until then.’ Gellert finally let go of Albus, allowing him to exit, and closing the door softly behind him.

For the first time in a while, Albus felt completely content as he walked home, which, conveniently, happened to be just next door. The afternoon had been unexpectedly good, and he actually had something to look forward to tomorrow. _All in all, today has been an unmitigated success._ That was, until he actually opened the little wooden gate to get into their _(his, now)_ front garden, and remembered.

It was, as always, the garden which caused the memories to come flooding back. It was not any change which Albus could specifically put his finger on, it just was. The garden was almost, if possible, too perfect. It had been his mother’s domain, an escape from her from domestic drudgery, and, if he was feeling uncharitable, which seemed to be happening a lot more recently, an escape from Ariana’s gaze. Kendra had always taken pride in the appearance of her cottage and garden, no matter their financial situation. She had spent hours, always whilst Ariana was sleeping, tending her plants, and painting and cleaning the cottage’s slightly tilted façade. Now, between Albus and Aberforth the garden was still being tended, the front of the house still well maintained, but it seemed colder, more perfunctory, and his mother’s roses were, ever so slightly, starting to wilt.

It was worse inside of course. In basic design, their cottage was exactly the same as Miss Bagshot’s, and nothing like their old house, which had been more modern, larger, and, of course, filled with laughter. They had no library, however, just two more bedrooms. Inside, the décor still belonged to his mother, a carefully cleaned, and fashionable, yet, if one looked closely, ageing, collection of ornaments and wooden furniture, all of which had been repaired carefully following the … _accident ( … murder …)_. There were some family photographs in all of the rooms too, lit at night by the gas lights, which worsened everything, as most of them had been taken before …

For a moment, Albus delayed his entrance to the house, pretending to study one of the wilting roses, then, feeling bad, he straightened his shoulders and went in. Aberforth was on him before he had even wiped his feet.

‘Where in Merlin’s name have you been?!? I needed you, she needed you!’ His brother’s usually surly expression had been replaced by one of absolute fury, of accusation.

‘Just at Miss Bagshot’s. You could have called if-‘ He tried, attempting not to respond to his brother’s anger.

‘Yes- when she’s having one of her turns of course I can just leave the house and go searching the village for you. You’re the only one of us who is old enough to do magic, remember? Or is it because we aren’t some dragon blood, or whatever shit you’re working on, experiment? Would you actually remember us then?’

_I will not be baited. Remember mother. I will not say anything,_ Albus determinedly mentally chanted. _It’s hard though, so hard._ ‘Well,’ he said calmly, but not without supreme effort. ‘I’m back now. Have you eaten? Has she eaten?’

Aberforth, for a moment, looked close to actually hitting Albus, which he had never actually yet done out of spite. ‘Like you care. I made something an hour ago. ‘Course as you were too busy.’

‘Look! I’m trying!’ Albus’ temper finally broke.

‘WELL YOU JUST AREN’T GOOD ENOUGH THEN!’ Aberforth yelled.

Fighting back angry tears, Albus was just attempting to think of something really cutting to hurl back at his brother when they both froze, having heard the small whispering movements from the second-best parlour. _All too familiar sounds._ Dirty boots and arguments forgotten, they both sprinted down the hall, skidding around the corner and through the door.

Luckily, _very luckily,_ the sounds they had heard which usually meant … that … was happening, were merely being produced by their sister turning the pages of a massive encyclopaedia, humming quietly to herself and apparently unaware of her brothers’ presence. By some unspoken agreement, Albus and Aberforth looked at one another, then tiptoed back out of the room, and back in to the hall.

‘Sorry for being out so late. I lost track of the time. It won’t happen again.’ Albus muttered, feeling guilty when he thought about Aberforth having to have on Albus’ responsibilities all day, and even guiltier when he remember what he had arranged for the morrow. ‘I know that I’m not very good at this, but I will get better, I promise, Ab.’

His brother seemed to consider for a moment, then the anger seeped out of his features. ‘I know. It’s just … I just … she just … Today was a rough day.’

‘I understand.’ What occurred next happened so fast that, later, when he replayed his it in his mind, Albus could almost convince himself that he hadn’t seen it. For just a moment, he could have sworn that his usually dour brother’s eyes seemed to fill with tears, and, to his utter disgrace all Albus could think was, _‘please no, if you do I will. I can’t stand it.’_ But then, fortunately, the moment passed with Albus only having to pat his brother on the arm, though, for a second he felt as though he should embrace his brother … _like Mother would have … like a parent … like I’m the parent._ And that was not a reassuring or pleasant thought.

Clearing his throat, his voice a little too hoarse, Ab looked awkwardly at the floor, tracing the vine patterns in the rug with one of his feet. ‘Might go out for a bit, just to feed the goats, y’know. Just for a bit, if you can just keep an eye on her? I mean, she’s eaten and everything so it’ll just be putting her to bed later, checking she stays calm. After this morning, she’s been ok.’ Albus held up a hand to stop his brother rambling.

‘Tell me about it tomorrow. And don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her this evening.’ Ab smiled at him, something he hadn’t done in a while.

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s my responsibility anyhow, and it’s not an unpleasant one.’ _It’s not really lying, not really._ ‘As for tomorrow.’ _Please stay calm._ ‘If I do some errands in the morning, but promise to be home and with the both of you by one o’clock at the latest, could you watch her? Then you can do whatever you want for the rest of the day.’

Aberforth seemed to be tempted to say something for a minute, something which, by the look in his eyes, would not have been nice, before looking shrewdly at his brother.

‘Swear?’

‘I swear.’ Albus replied, attempting to look earnest.  _After all, what could realistically delay me so much that I would be late tomorrow, it is not as if there is that much to show in Godric’s Hollow._

Looking as though he was tempted again to say something else, Aberforth opened his mouth, before closing it again, and, nodding brusquely once, turning and heading off into the night. _Is that what he does? How he coped? Talking to however many goats he has?_ Albus thought in a moment of clarity, a moment which was rather alarming as, for the first time, he began to view his brother as perhaps approaching adulthood. Then it passed- _just as long as he doesn’t throw goat dung at that woman’s head again, as long as he doesn’t do that everything will be fine._

Albus then mentally braced himself, knowing what he must do next. Clearing his features, and replacing his concerned expression with a gentle smile, went back into the room where Ariana was. At first, she seemed to almost blend into the décor, the shade of blue in her dress almost exactly matching the rag-rug his mother had made years ago, when she had been expecting Aberforth, he thought. The fire was lit, despite the heat, which didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest, though the embers only glowed faintly. Someone, Aberforth he presumed, as he was not certain Ariana knew how, had turned on the gas lights, which produced odd, sputtering shadows. _Everything is the same! It’s always the same!_ The same dark oak furniture, the same comfy chairs, the same books, desk, furnishings … _photographs … I can’t bear it._ Blinking back tears yet again, yet somehow managing to keep hold of his small smile, Albus went over to where she sat, crouched on the rug, still looking through the huge, leather bound encyclopaedia, trying as he walked, carefully avoiding the artistically placed small tables, to ignore the shadows dancing across the painted, blue-vined wall paper with its motifs of birds. In the light, they look alive … they moved almost like … it … did.

She didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way until he sat in one of the armchairs beside her. Then, she merely looked up at him and smiled that sweet, vacant smile, one of the thing he found hard about her condition. Once, she had looked bright and vivacious, lively and always looking for mischief. That girl, he had to regularly remind himself, was gone, and, from the looks of things, was not coming back. Most of the time, however, the hardest thing was reconciling the fact that, in terms of age, she was barely two years younger than Ab, four younger than Albus himself, as they were world apart, she always seemed so much younger. It was hard to believe that, if she were … _normal_ … she’d be like any of the other girls at school now, interested in boys and dresses, giggling with friends over inconsequential things … beginning to think about her owls. Albus knew he couldn’t think like that, so rarely allowed himself to. That way madness lay, and Albus didn’t know how his Mother had avoided it. As it was, here she sat, empty, except for when … that … happened. Her blonde hair falling down her back neatly, her face devoid of expression, other than that vapid smile, and her eyes empty, yet broken, like a smashed mirror, almost.

Albus was somewhat taken aback when she spoke, which was a relatively rare occurrence, especially to him. ‘Papa used to collect these books, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Albus said, keeping his voice, through some miracle, level, jolting between being delighted that she seemed to actually remember something like that, and want to talk to him about it, and trying to avoid looking at the pictures on the wall. His father was a lot of those, a man he had always viewed as larger than life, and whom he didn’t know. _I never told Mama one thing, that I don’t remember him well, or Ariana as she was, or any of it. I’m not sure I want to, if I’m honest ... especially not like that- smiles always look fake in photographs … even if they’re real … like those were._

For a moment, a slight expression of confusion marred Ariana’s expression. ‘But he’s not here?’

‘No, Anna, he’s away for a while.’

‘Oh. What’s this mean?’ And like that her focus had changed, to a passage on muggle locomotives, which Albus happily explained to her. Ariana was a fast learner. _She would have been- no, is- clever._ The only thing they taught her was what had happened to their parents. _A white lie really, and therefore not really a lie at all._

Contrary to Albus’ expectations, they actually passed a very pleasant evening, discussing everything in the book from locomotives to the positioning of different countries and wizarding communities around the world. _She’s having a good evening … and that’s a blessing. For once, I have a sister._

At one point, Albus saw Ab peering in, and nodded at him, to indicate all was well, then Ab went up to bed, seemingly content to leave them as they were. When the clock on the wall chimed ten, Albus decided that he should probably be the adult, responsible older brother, and chivvy Ariana to sleep.

‘Anna, bed time?’

‘Sure. Read to me, please?’

‘Of course. Which story?’ This was a regular thing between them, a love of reading was one of the few things he seemed to have in common with his sister, and, if he had the time, he always read to her. It seemed to help to keep her calm overnight. Every evening, when he was free, they would sit in here and choose some new book, then, after a chapter, or a story if it was a compendium, she would go up to bed, and he would go to his room and work on whatever he was writing at the time.

‘Beedle the Bard- the Tale of the Three Brothers.’ She said gleefully, knowing that that was both of their favourites.’

‘A good choice.’ Albus retrieved the book, Ariana deciding to sit on the chair next to him, leaning over so that she could trace the pictures in their old copy of the book with one of her fingers whilst he read. Out of the corner of his eye, Albus saw that Ab seemed to have come back downstairs for something and had discreetly edged into the room to listen. _For once all is good, and we’re a family._ ‘A long time ago, in a far away land,’ he read. ‘Three brothers were travelling along a lonely road at twilight.’

_ 16th July 1899- Morning- Gellert’s POV- _

Gellert was seriously regretting arranging to meet Albus (his apparent new friend) at eight in the morning. Despite the fact that he’d slept very well, when he had actually got to sleep after reading until perhaps a little too late (in his defence the book had been very interesting), he was not naturally a morning person and had managed to spectacularly underestimate how tired he was. He had been reluctant to get up when the charm he had cast activated, and dressed (light clothes, due to the completely uncivilised heat), and breakfasted (the wonders of porridge … never again) in a sort of stupor. And Tante Bathilda’s cupboard had contained no coffee, always a bad start to a day. Still, and he brightened considerably at the thought, it should be an interesting day at the very least, despite his misgivings about the strength of the sun already pouring through the kitchen windows, illuminating the chaos of the room, and the lack of any apparent breeze.

Albus was, however, the most interesting person he’d met in a long time, perhaps ever. Certainly the most promising, and definitely not what Gellert had been expecting from someone who lived in somewhere like Godric’s Hollow. In fact, Gellert had a slight, and rather alarming, suspicion that Albus was, perhaps, marginally cleverer … and potentially marginally better at magic … than he was … at least an equal … which had made him feel inspired (or maybe uneasy) enough to dig out all the journals he could find, actually reading up on all the latest magical developments, not just the ones he was interested in. He had even fine-tuned his opinions and re-read the other boy’s work for himself (which, although he did not like to admit it, had been ever so slightly scary), as well as filching some of his Tante’s work … which Albus seemed familiar with (which was even more alarming as, from what she had said about Albus, she seemed to think of him as very close to her academically, even when his age was considered). Gellert had to admit that he was suddenly wishing, something he had never done before, that he actually had published something to prove his intelligence, rather than just knowing it was present and putting it to other uses. He’d also made copious (well, as copious as one could do in one night) mental and physical notes from some more of his Tante’s library. That late night reading, along with the previous day’s travelling, and the fact that he’d gotten accustomed to later rising after leaving Durmstrang, was probably why he could hardly keep his eyes open despite being firmly sent to bed at nine by his Tante (an occurrence which he was determined would not occur again). To be fair, he had gone through the motions of going to bed, to stop Tante Bathilda interfering, but as soon as his customary locking charm was on the door, and his own was out, he’d simply cast lumos, put a cover over the light and himself and read and written … until three, by his estimation. In hindsight, that had been a mistake on a day when he wanted his mental faculties to be at their best … _and when there is no coffee._

He was, he had to admit, quite excited, an unusual state of being for him when it was linked to another person, rather than to his work.

‘Gellert! Is that you? Where are you going?’ Tante Bathilda shouted from what sounded like the library as the dining room door, which he had been trying to close gently, slammed. Gellert had to strongly resist an urge to answer- ‘No, of course bloody not.’ _Who else? Perhaps his aunt was having an illicit affair,_ he laughed to himself, _Now that would be interesting!_

‘Guten Morgen, Tante- I mean Aunt. Just out for a while, Albus said that he would show me around the village a bit-‘

‘Good, good. Just be nice, dear, he’s been having a rough time recently.’ _Hmm?_ ‘And-‘ As if she had suddenly remembered that she was acting as his guardian- actually cared. ‘Don’t be back too late- I want to see you at lunch!’

‘Fine.’ He responded, rather reluctantly. ‘I will be! Auf Wiedersehen!’

A few things struck Gellert the minute he shut the front door. First, that he’d been so distracted by actually meeting someone intelligent that they hadn’t arranged a meeting place. Second, that he had absolutely no idea where Albus lived, and thirdly, that he was on time but there was no Albus in sight. There were village people, for sure, some muggle, some wizard, but no tall, red-headed ones. _Shit._ Gellert sat, feeling rather dejected. For the sake of his own pride, no matter what happened he most definitely wasn’t going back inside until lunch, and would be incredibly annoyed if he had been stood up.

He must have sat there, he supposed, for about half an hour, marvelling at how any place could be quite as boring as Godric’s Hollow seemed to be. For starters, the road was dirt, and very dusty, which caused Gellert to wrinkle his nose in disgust, having always been a bit more of a city person, then there were the cottages, which all seemed to be identical to his aunt’s, and which were actually quite close together, with his being able to look at the wilted roses in the next front garden from his position on the wall. From where he was, all he could see were these cottages, although he presumed they must be close to some countryside, and to something resembling a village shop, or a church … or anything. Then there were the village people, who also seemed pretty similar, all seeming to know one another, wearing outdated clothes and wandering about their errands. There seemed to be minimal other young people, though he noticed some children chasing a hoop down the road. All in all, Godric’s Hollow was living up to his expectations exactly.

Gellert finally, after the half an hour passed, stood, cursing Albus as he did so, and preparing himself for the embarrassment of telling Miss Bagshot what had happened, and was just about to declare the meeting a bad lot and go back inside to get more sleep, when Albus actually emerged from the cottage next door. He looked rather flustered, hair forming a sort of mane around his head, his robes slightly askew and his face red. Gellert half waves from his place standing a rock at the side of the path and Albus seemed to perk up when he saw him, the worry lines etched in his face disappearing. They joined one another on the road and set off together.

‘I have to run a couple of errands, if you don’t mind that is, then I’ll show you around properly.’ Albus huffed out in one breath, the worry lines reappearing. ‘Morning, by the way, and I apologise for being late.’ Gellert was almost tempted to voice his irritation at having been made to wait, when he saw the shadow which had passed across his companion’s face as Albus looked at his feet, glaring as if they had personally offended him. ‘My younger sister, Ariana, is very delicate, and she was unwell this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Was all he could think to say ( _well done, good for me_ ) as dealing with the emotions of others had never exactly been his forte. Albus actually looked quite upset, and tired, usually clear blue eyes clouded and downcast. Gellert considered patting him on the shoulder, then decided that he didn’t know the other boy well enough to do that yet, and that it probably wouldn’t help even if he did, so instead he decided to seek refuge in attempted to create what he hoped would be a comfortable silence until the other boy had recovered a little. His mouth, however, seemed to have other ideas and clawed around for something to say. ‘So you had to help your mother, then?’

At that, Albus, if that was actually possible, looked even more depressed, dangerously close to tears, in fact, and Gellert immediately realised  that he had, in some way, managed to open his mouth and stick his foot in it. ‘My mother passed on two weeks ago … there was an accident … they told me in a letter …’ Gellert winced. _Oh Dane, of all the things I could have said … Some God is laughing at my expense._ But he carried on- oh Merlin- for some reason he carried on in the same vein.

‘Your father, then?’ Before saying that, Gellert had been certain that the situation could not get any worse, he was wrong. There was pain in the other boy’s eyes, then blankness- concealment.

Albus seemed almost to steel himself before providing an apparently well-rehearsed answer in a dull, monotonous voice. ‘My father died in Azkaban last year.’ ( _What? – then who?)_ Then, as if recognising that right at that moment Gellert was, in another first, absolutely mortified, and apparently attempting to save him from further embarrassment, without sharing too much more information about this apparently, and naturally, sensitive topic. ‘I live with my younger brother and sister- I’m in charge of them.’ He stated, bluntly, though with a tiny bit more life in his voice. Despite the valiant attempt, Gellert still wanted the ground to swallow him. He couldn’t imagine that- he’d always had a guardian, no matter how bad, he’d never been responsible … limited … held. He groped around yet again for something acceptable to say, something which would not seem like he was prying, but which would allow him to keep and get to know better his new friend.

All he could come up with was. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss. I didn’t know. Are you certain you want to show me around rather than being with them?’ _Brilliant, fantastic, very, very original._ But he wasn’t used to being comforting.

‘What about you?’ Albus said, changing the subject as he steered them left onto what appeared to be the village’s main thoroughfare, if it could actually be called that. It was, to be honest, just marginally larger than the road they lived on, and had slightly bigger houses, though Gellert thought he could see a church and marketplace in the distance. ‘If I may ask, why are you living with Miss Bagshot? I didn’t even know that she had any family abroad.’

‘Orphan too.’ He stated, briefly. ‘My parents got Dragon Pox when I was seven, remember that year when it was really bad? Yes, well, I’ve lived with different family members ever since.’ Gellert didn’t like talking about this, not because it upset him, or was painful, in reality he couldn’t really remember them, just disconnected images. He didn’t like talking about it because it was uncomfortable, with people expecting him to show more emotion whilst they looked at him with pity in his eyes, an emotion he truly could not stand.

‘They didn’t make it.’ He continued. ‘I was staying with family at the time so …’ Albus nodded, understanding, but luckily there was little pity in his eyes, which made the conversation, which Gellert supposed was necessary for them to move on in their friendship, infinitesimally more bearable.

‘Ja, two. Johannes, five years older, and Magdalena, three years younger. But they were with my parents when-‘ It was not really necessary to continue that sentence and Albus was taking his turn to look uncomfortable.

‘Sorry.’ They both took thankful refuge in comfortable silence.

They were just turning into the marketplace, which did indeed have shops and a church, when Albus spoke again. ‘So Miss Bagshot is your great-aunt then?’

‘She’s my grandmother’s youngest sister, and she’s technically my guardian now, I think.’

‘Guardian?’ Albus sounded mildly surprised. ‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Oh, I thought you were older- the same age as me.’

Gellert grimaced slightly. ‘You’re eighteen, right?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Same difference. Tante didn’t tell you about the circumstances in which I left Durmstrang, did she?’

‘Ah.’ Said Albus, understanding, though he didn’t seem to be overly shocked.

Both looked solemn for a moment before Albus suddenly started grinning. ‘And on, arguably I know, a more cheerful note, here before you are the wonders of Godric’s Hollow.’ He gestured, showing off an old church, with an extensive graveyard, and a paved square with a flower bed in the middle and shops surrounding it. Gellert groaned, it was as boring as he had feared.

‘Please tell me there’s something else here.’

‘Fields. You need to go to London if you actually want to get anything. I mean you can send owl post, and there’s a very small apothecary, and a book shop which takes orders. Other than that you can buy food and get a bicycle repaired, that’s all, even for muggles this place is pretty bad.’

‘Great, just great.’

Albus laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

Gellert partnered Albus on his errands, chatting about new muggle inventions, magical developments (which made Gellert very glad of his research the night before) and general facts about the village. The book shop was decent, other than that Albus merely picked up food and ingredients from the apothecary and a few assorted shops which looked exactly the same, and in which everyone seemed to know each other. By the time they had got back to the church, Gellert was certain Albus had assured over thirty people of his continued health, and heard innumerable responses in return.

‘I need to head back now. I promised my brother. But, there is one interesting thing in this village. You see the graveyard, well, the Peverells are buried there. The ones who are supposed to be in the Tale of the Three Brothers in Beedle the Bard.’

‘Really?’ Gellert asked, intrigued.

‘Yes, we can go see the graves at some point, if you’re interested that is?’

‘Ja, naturlich … Yes, I mean, yes … when?’

‘Whenever. I might be free tomorrow afternoon.’

‘That would be great.’

It was only as they raced back home, laughing, that Gellert realised why Albus seemed strangely familiar, other than because of his published works. It was the glint of red hair in the sun which jogged his memory, and the heat, which was, as midday approached, just beginning to become unbearable. _My vision …_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has, like the others, been hard to write, but I am still loving doing it, so there's that. Ariana was particularly hard to bring in (the shortening of her name to Anna was intentional, by the way, and not a typo). I also want Gellert and Albus to be human, so I hope I am succeeding in doing that. I hope you guys are still enjoying this. I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be up, what with starting uni, but hopefully it'll be soon- I really hope it will at any rate! Really excited about all the Fantastic Beasts updates and definitely want to complete this entire fic whilst it remains canon compliant (though don't know how many chapters yet- it'll probably be a lot though, bearing in mind where we are in the timescale). Please review as it makes me happy :)


	5. Chapter 5- 16th July 1899- The Perfect Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the morning's trip.

_ 16th July 1899- Midday- Gellert’s POV- Miss Bagshot’s Cottage, Godric’s Hollow, England- _

It was a relief to get inside and finally gain some protection from the incessant, burning sun and the heat. Despite their being careful to get back home before the hottest part of the day, Gellert was pretty sure that he had added to his sunburn and was also feeling rather cheated as he had been informed, reliably, or so he had believed, that England was a relatively cold and wet country. _But it was worth it, Merlin, it had most definitely been worth it._ The day before he had suspected, to some extent, Albus’ potential, but today he had, yet again, been pleasantly … _no, scarily …_ surprised, and somewhat awed, by the scope of the other boy’s knowledge and understanding. _And as for power, well, we shall see._

Admittedly, they had not spoken for nearly as long as he would have liked, or about as many things as he would, ideally, have wanted but, and Gellert was now almost certain of this, Albus Dumbledore would prove to be important, useful, and most definitely interesting. Someone he had most definitely expected to exist after the sheer mundaneness of the minds that he had encountered at Durmstrang, _and, come to think of it, anywhere. I won’t lose him. I can’t, not until I know him better._ And Gellert was also pretty certain that Albus was just as bored, as frustrated, and perhaps as brilliant, as he was, _a definite bonus. And the vision! It must be him! It must!_ He could not, of course, be absolutely certain; he knew better than most already that prophesising was a very inexact magical discipline, but he did know, as surely as there had to be at least four more uses for dragons’ blood than the currently discovered six, that Albus was going to be a big part of his summer, at the very least.

Although, with the apparently large extent of Albus responsibilities, seeing him was going to be a bit of a challenge, but one that Gellert was more than willing to meet. He knew how persuasive he could be, and he wanted to spend more time with Albus, to learn more about him, so he was going to make it happen. Especially when he considered the end of their earlier conversation, when Albus had mentioned … _them. The Hallows! I was right! I was right!_ But that was a thought to be further explored later, once he had visited the village graveyard. For now, Albus was his new priority. It was as he stood there, in the blessed cool of Tante Bathilda’s cottage’s poky hallway, thinking, that the woman herself called for him.

‘Gellert! Is that you!’ _No- it’s a Martian._ Her voice was slightly muffled- _the kitchen then._

‘Yes, T-aunt Tilda.’

‘Lunch is in here. Make sure you change and wash your hands before you eat- it must have been dusty out there.’ _Because Godric’s Hollow apparently has not yet discovered proper roads. And of course, I would have, I’m not a savage, no matter what Inke might have told you._

‘Of course, Aunt Tilda.’ He called back, trying, and semi-succeeding in keeping the sarcastic inflection, the frustration, out of his voice. Turning to climb the stairs, Gellert sighed. His tiredness was returning with a vengeance now he was no longer distracted and excited by his engaging companion. He was overheated as he had completely forgotten to speak to his Tante about getting some lighter clothing- and now could not really bring himself to, especially considering the selection (of lack) of shops in Godric’s Hollow, and the faded, old-fashioned, and suspiciously homemade-looking styles his aunt seemed to be partial to. His sunburn hurt, and the headache he was developing was not being helped by the carpet his aunt had chosen, on which the pattern had faded and torn so much with use that it now consisted of wild, geometric shaped which in no way resembled the stairs, causing him to fall and bark his knee painfully. ‘Verdamnt!’

‘Are you alright dear?’ Tante Tilda called.

‘Yes, fine. I just- what is the word- slipped.’

‘Oh- I keep meaning to get that carpet replaced.’ Gellert decided not to deign that with a response. _Damn it all- Inke, Tante Tilda, the sun, Albus’ responsibilities, Gellert’s own stupid age, stupid Godric’s Hollow, stupid Durmstrang- the small-minded pricks-_ cursing under his breath and in a thoroughly bad mood which showed no sign of abating, he continued to his room, feeling sorely tempted to just collapse on the bed and sleep until his Tante saw fit to wake him. But it would not do to upset Miss Bagshot, he supposed, _not yet, at any rate- not with Albus and the Hallows, and with my being so close to finally becoming an adult; who know which relative I would get farmed out to next if this does not work out._ At least Bathilda appeared to be alright with him- so far, at any rate.

So, trying hard to feel slightly more positive, but with little apparent success, Gellert, squirming slightly at the unpleasant sensation, literally peeled his jacket and shirt off, deciding that for the rest of the day he would risk only shirt sleeves- it might not be proper, strictly speaking, but at least he would not get heat stroke. And Tilda was so laid back she probably would not mind anyway.

His room was a mess, he knew, which was quite unusual for him, as usually there was an order to the chaos, bed into him by Durmstrang’s strict rules, and his own liking for logic. It had been caused by the frantic cramming of the night before. Yellowing sheaves lay across ancient tomes and shiny new journals and magazines in the dappled sunlight, dust motes casting eclectic shadows as they darted through the shafts of light. Quickly, noticing the sun, and the beginnings of severe stuffiness in his room, he quickly pulled the curtain to, trying hard to ignore the very unfortunate ancient blue and gold pattern, before his room became a sauna. The mess, he decided, could wait a little. He couldn’t face it and it was not as if, until he met Albus again, he had much to do, as he was too tired to do research right now.

Bathilda’s bathroom was the next stop- one that Gellert felt summed up its owner nicely. It was chaotic, old fashioned, dubiously functional and, in some areas, bordering on lunacy. Products were strewn everywhere, a rather droopy lily sat atop a pile of books (ranging from ‘An Appraisal of Magic in Brittany 1783-1801’ to ‘Everyday Spells for the Modern World’), atop the vanity. The mat was- by the looks of it- handmade very inexpertly, making it another hazard. And as for the drawers, Gellert did not even want to go there. Washing his hands only took a minute, though he winced when he saw how burnt his reflection looked, and then it was off to the kitchen for lunch with Bathilda.

‘Oh, there you are, dear. I was just going to call you again.’ Tilda beamed up at him from her seat at the little wooden table. Today, she had elected to war a light blue crinoline, at least twenty years out of date, with slightly worn and yellowing lace frills and, in a concession to the heat perhaps, had dispensed with her shawl. The kitchen itself was relatively cool, the window being shaded by the overgrown honeysuckle and open to tempt in any breeze which might appear. She appeared to have made an effort, as the table was cleared of the mess which had covered it the day before, fully laid, and a decent amount of food had been provided- sandwiches by the looks of it- but Gellert was too hungry, thirsty, and tired to really be fussy. He was beginning to miss continental cuisine, _proper cuisine,_ already though. _And tea- yet more tea- always more tea…_ ‘Oh Merlin!’ His Tante gasped just after had had sat down, making him jump slightly in surprise. ‘You are burnt to a crisp.’ She exclaimed, apparently finally taking in his full appearance. ‘I’ll make up a potion for that.’

Gellert was very tempted to say he would make it up himself but decided against it when he saw the hopeful look in her eyes. ‘The weather has been most unusually warm this- ‘She babbled happily on- a state Gellert was beginning to view as her natural one- almost sending the milk flying as she leant over to pass him the various foodstuffs. ‘I’ll make it after lunch.’ She seemed almost pathetically delighted to have someone there, appearing to listen, although he was pretty sure she would, and did, carry on talking either way. He jumped again when she placed a hand to his forehead, then cheeks, managing not to slap the hand away. _I’m not a child._

‘Yes, very warm. Oh, you poor dear. Your hair is lightening up something lovely though. Hands?’ Obediently, knowing the drill well already, Gellert held them up for inspection. Tante Bathilda appeared to have read some form of parenting book and was trying to follow it step by step ‘Good. Well, there’s no need to stand up. Sit. Sit. You must be starving. Boys always need food. It’s just sandwiches I’m afraid, but just feel free to ask for something, buy something or make something up for yourself if you get hungry later. Actually, it might be better for you to buy something or make it yourself as I’m a little busy with my research at the moment- Giant Wars, you know? Anyways, we’ll usually eat breakfast and lunch in the kitchen and dinner in the dining room, although, come to think of it, I do not know what time you breakfast? So maybe-?’ She paused for a moment, thinking, before continuing. ‘Oh, and I might have to ask you to do some little jobs for me sometimes whilst you are here, just errands and the such like, if that is agreeable?’

Gellert nodded, taking a rather suspicious bite of one of the proffered sandwiches, then trying hard not to gag to noticeable. Tante Tilda’s tea yesterday had not been so bad, but still … he tentatively looked at the filling, seeing something pink and mushy which might once had been meat. _Yeuch._

‘Erm … what is-?’

‘That- oh- just corned beef.’

‘Korned-? What?’

‘Beef, dear. Beef- from a cow. Never had corned beef before?’

‘No.’ _And if I ever have it again it will be far, far too soon. I thought English food was supposed to be alright, not brilliant, but better than this._ With a feat he believed to be worthy of an Order of Merlin, he managed to force the sandwich down, suddenly appreciating the tea infinitely more.

His Tante looked at him for a minute, then at her own teacup, awkwardly almost. ‘How was Albus?’ There was something which sounded suspiciously like pity in her voice.

‘Well, I think, although he seemed very … what is the word? … busy? Flustered?’ Gellert tried hopefully, cursing the language, or, more accurately, his Tante’s lack of German.

‘Yes … yes. I can imagine.’ Bathilda sighed, apparently lost in thought for a moment. ‘Poor, poor boy. Too much responsibility, really, for one so young.’

Trying and failing miserably not to be nosy, Gellert finally gave into the inevitable and began to probe for some more information. ‘Is there no one else to take in the younger ones? Won’t they go back to school soon? And the father? Albus tole me where he was …’

‘No, no.’ Tilda sighed, looking sadly at Gellert, eyes almost brimming. ‘Poor little ones. It’s just the three of them. The mother died very recently … a tragic accident. And the father, well, I do not want to betray confidences but if you looked in a newspaper, or perhaps eventually have a proper conversation with Albus himself about it … yes, not a nice business.’ Gellert immediately made a note to do exactly that as soon as possible, wishing more than anything to learn more about his new companion. ‘I imagine Albus will have to start looking for some form of employment reasonably soon, once he receives his NEWT results, of course. Such a waste- he could do so much … As for school, well, the brother, Aberforth, you probably would not have seen him yet, he rather keeps himself to himself, will go back soon- he is about your age, I think. And the sister, Ariana, she’s- ‘Tilda paused, momentarily, but long enough for Gellert to notice, and to wonder… ‘-too frail for school. Of course, Albus will get appointed to any job he applies to, but still … you keep an eye on him, Gellert. It will be good for the both of you.’ Tilda sounded surprisingly firm, catching his eye for the first time since they had begun this uncomfortable part of the conversation. Gellert smiled at her, meeting her gaze; he certainly intended on staying close to Albus.

‘Speaking of families.’ Warning bells immediately went off. ‘The post was late today, but your Aunt Inke wrote to me.’ Gellert’s smile faltered, then vanished, all the merriment gone- _what now?_ ‘She wanted to know if you had settled in.’ _Like she cares, like she is not just making sure that you are not intending on sending me back._ ‘I was planning on writing back and saying that you have- unless you want to write to her yourself?’ She looked at him, questioning.

‘No, you can. It’s fine.’ He was worried for a moment that he had replied too quickly for politeness, thereby perhaps making Bathilda suspicious, but she smiled her rather vague grin and he knew everything was fine. She had not yet suspected the level of indifference he harboured for his family.

‘Wonderful. Now- if you will be staying here longer term there is something I want to talk to you about.’ She poured lemonade (a blessed relief from the tea) into fluted glasses and gave him a large slice of some form of sponge cake- as if trying to soften in oncoming blow. ‘Your schooling.’ She paused, gauging his reaction.

Gellert winced slightly. He had known that this conversation was bound to come but had not expected it to appear quite this soon.

‘I know things … did not work out … at Durmstrang.’ _Well, that’s one way of putting it._ ‘But you appear’ _appear?_ ‘to be a bright you man, and surely you realise the value, no, the necessity of education.’ _Not really for me, no._ ‘With some application on your part in relation to the language, which I know must be challenging, I am sure if I spoke with the Headmaster Hogwarts might would consider letting you complete your education there.’ _So Inke didn’t tell you? That’s why you agreed to take me._ ‘Or you could study from home, but I am sure that it would be nicer for you to be around people closer to your own age, not some old fogey like me.’ _No,_ Gellert had absolutely no intention of re-entering school in any form. Firstly, because all other young people his age bored him to tears ( _except, apparently, surprisingly, Albus- but he has already completed school anyway)_ and secondly, even if by some miracle Hogwarts did accept him, he had finished the whole curriculum himself already. _Still, I do need Tante Tilda on side, at least for the time being._ Tilda was busy enough, and apparently unobservant enough, that he was sure if he kept a relatively low profile he could carry on with his research without her noticing, an occurrence which was highly unlikely to occur if he was sent back to his German family.

‘I have yet to find out my OWL grades.’ He tried, hoping against hope that she would realise where he was going with this, without his having to explicitly state his wish not to re-enter education.

‘Of course. We can decide how to proceed then. They should probably come through in a couple of weeks, I suppose.’ Tilda seemed, then, not noticing Gellert’s almost imperceptible sigh of relief, to feel that she had done enough guardianship for one day, finally allowing him to eat (the cake was infinitely better than the corned beef- Merlin, he missed German food!) and quench his thirst in peace, as she turned to the most recent copy of Transfiguration Today- which Gellert, considering Albus’ apparent prowess, made a mental note to ask to borrow later.

He was just about to ask to be excused when an idea struck him, one so obvious that he could scarcely believe it had not come to him before.

‘Aunt, would it be possible for me to borrow your owl, please?’ He deliberately turned on the charm, the merry, mischievous smile which usually worked so well on everyone. She looked up, half her mind still obviously on her work.

‘Owl? Of course, dear. Cage is in the scullery. He’s called Emrys. Short journeys only! He’s quite elderly.’ She called at his retreating back.

‘Thanks.’ He hollered back from the base of the stairs. Inke would have been suspicious, but Aunt Tilda was not, and that was a blessing. He shot up the stairs two at a time to his room and immediately began searching for a quill, ink, wax and parchment, before settling himself at the desk by the window. The sunlight was still streaming in, but he could tell that the heat was changing, becoming muggy, a haze beginning to develop in the sky.

After quite a lot of thinking, a few dictionary checks in the library, and a lot of discarded parchment, he came up with what he believed to be an acceptable opening communique.

 _‘Dear Albus,’_ he wrote, long ago English composition lessons now fresh in his head, and hoping against hope that he had actually seen fit to properly learn them so he would come across at least decently. _‘It was very nice’_ He internally groaned. _‘meeting you today. Thank you for showing me the wonders of the town.’_   Albus, he knew, would pick up on his sarcasm. _‘I understand that you must be very busy, but was wondering whether I could impose upon you again soon, at a time convenient for you, of course, to show me around the churchyard you mentioned- perhaps tomorrow, as you said? It would also be pleasant to continue our conversations of today. Hoping to hear back from you soon. Yours sincerely, Gellert.’_

It was short, perhaps a little too much so, but to the point, and Gellert was fairly certain he had made no glaring grammatical errors or social faux pas, and, considering that he rarely wrote social letters, and then always in his mother-tongue, did not think it was too bad. He then rolled and sealed it, writing his new friend’s name clearly on the front, before going downstairs to send it, giving an owl treat to the tawny Emrys to keep him onside, as he had a feeling he was going to have regular need of the owl. After that a blissfully free afternoon loomed, which he decided to fill with nabbing the journal from his Tante and reading it in the garden with some more of the quite excellent lemonade. As he headed outside he absentmindedly touched the necklace he wore, smiling slightly, pleased with the day’s work so far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ 16th July 1899- Midday- Albus’ POV- The Dumbledore’s Cottage, Godric’s Hollow, England- _

‘How the hell did it take you that long?’ Aberforth’s angry should from the kitchen was the first thing that greeted Albus when he shut the heavy oaken front door of his family home. He seriously debated attempting to delay the inevitable confrontation by lingering in the hall, but then decided against it. _He might be, but I am not a child._ Sighing, and feeling as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he traversed down the gloomy hallway, noting sadly that the wallpaper needed touching up, to the blindingly bright, sunlit opening that was the door to the kitchen.

When he entered the room, the scene was almost exactly the same as when he had left it, it resembled some grim parody of the family post-cards his mother had used to send friends at mid-summer, portraying the happy family together, in domestic bliss in the heart of the home, the kitchen. But only his two siblings, which still rather shocked him, still expecting Mama to be standing at the stove, were sitting at the small, wooden table set against the window, sunlight streaming onto the yellow-gingham table cloth with the remnants of a late breakfast strewn across it ( _he could have cleaned that, … actually done something …),_ an a blue china vase full of slightly wilted roses ( _Mama’s favourite …_ but Albus, as he had become accustomed to doing, pushed that painful thought firmly away.)

Ariana, at least, seemed to be calm again. He nose was buried in ‘Celeste and her Magical Cast,’ her current favourite book. ( _She sometimes looks as if she would have been so smart … always reading … such a waste …)_ not even really appearing to register that he had entered ( _better that way, really._ ) A small, guilty part of him, that he could never quite quash, wondered why she just couldn’t be normal. She was neatly turned out, however, blonde curls brushed, light blue dress, even her absentminded smile was endearing, in a way ( _A far, far cry from this morning … no … it isn’t her fault.)_ Part of Albus, a part he tried hard to ignore, did wonder, however.

‘Well?’ Aberforth demanded, his face reddening. He was not a pretty picture, blue eyes, so like Albus’ own, flashing in barely contained fury, ruffled and, as per usual, smelling slightly of goat. Albus hoped he had washed his hands before eating, but doubted it. Albus was far too tired for this, could not face it.

‘I was out buying food,  and showing Miss Bagshot’s grand-nephew around, at her request. I did not linger, I assure you, but we did need food.’ Reason, and patience, Albus felt, were usually lost on his brother; he usually tried, though, even when his brother was an obnoxious git.

‘You didn’t have to make a Grand bloody Tour out of it.’ That hit scored.

‘Well,’ Albus’ calm was rapidly fading, his temper, that familiar beast which he usually tried so hard to quell, rising rapidly to meet his brother and the stubborn set of his jaw. ‘Some of us are actually trying to get along with our neighbours, rather than throwing goat dung at them- which, by the way-‘

‘You aren’t mother! You with your superior attitude. You’re no better than us! Acting like you care cause that’s what’s expected! Hypocrite! Asshole! F-‘ His brother shouted, coming closer, invading his personal space.

Albus was just about to respond when a low whine permeated the room, causing the two brothers to freeze. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stoooooppp iiiittt!’ Ariana was screeching, at increasing volumes, hands over her ears and eyes slightly tightly shut. She was shaking, no, something under her skin was moving, trying to get out. Albus and Aberforth looked at each other, animosity not forgotten, but no longer a priority, and sprang into action, settling on either side of their sister. _Twice in one day … it’s getting worse … please no … not now …_

Luckily it did not happen, but they did spend the best part of the next quarter of an hour talking quietly, calmingly, to her; mostly variations along the lines of ‘it’s alright,’ ‘we’re fine,’ and ‘don’t worry about it, we’re just tired.’ _After all, white lies are not always bad, mama said that._ That thought was also painful, however, so Albus once again pushed it away. Once Ariana was finally calm ( _disaster averted),_ nose back in the book, Albus conjured up a lunch of sandwiches and tea. They were mostly silent, they had found from experience that it tended to be better that way. _If only we could get away from each other for a bit…_

‘Post arrived.’ Ab stated, tersely, the civility in his voice very forced. _Dane, please just don’t- couldn’t you have just been normal, too. Or perhaps I could have been an only child,_ Albus thought he might have liked that.

‘I’ll take at look at it after lunch- then I need to finish that article.’ Albus knew that the civility in his voice was equally forced, but there was no point explaining what he was doing, Aberforth was never particularly interested, and neither he nor Ariana were likely to understand.

‘Fine. Off you go then. I’ll clean up.’ Relief flooded Albus, a cowardly sort of relief, but he needed to get away- away from that sun-drenched kitchen filled with its memories, his mother’s ghost, his brother’s hatred ( _if it had not happened, could we have just gotten along? We managed it before)_ and Ariana’s blank stares. Away from this boredom, from the pervading taste of failure- away from his life. _But it has to work, it must … mama wanted it to … mama said …_

‘I will be down later. Be good. Enjoy your book, Annie.’ He chucked her gently under the chin as he passed. She smiled slightly at the nickname, but that was all. Celeste was just getting a new cat, and that took all her attention.

Albus managed not to run out of the room, but it was a close thing. The letter were on a little mahogany table in the hall, as usual, and Albus carried them up to his room. It was not a large space, barely big enough to fit a bed, wardrobe and desk, _not like in the old house …_ but that had been a lifetime ago. The walls, Albus vaguely remembered, had some form of blue paper, but he had not seen them in a while as every available inch of wall space was covered in book shelves, all in perfect order ranging from his schoolbooks to journals to older manuscripts borrowed from or given by Miss Bagshot, Flamel and his other correspondents, and fronted by various trophies and certificates.

He settled at the desk to read, carefully moving the manuscript for his new article to one side, ensuring his quill and ink were nowhere near the parchment. There were five letters today. The first was clearly from the bank, which Albus decided he was far too worn out to deal with right know- he knew what it would say anyway- something he could not tell Ab about. The second looked like it was from Transfiguration Today- he did not open that either- he already knew full well that his article was late. The third was from the Ministry of Magic- probably offering him a job he could not take up- that he also decided to save for later, not wanting the longing and disappointment. The fourth was in a familiar, neat, cursive hand, one which had appeared on his schoolwork feedback for the past seven years. He opened it-

_‘Dear Albus,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well, or as well as you can be, given the circumstances. Your loss must still be very hard to bear and I was most saddened to hear about it. I have no words that you will not have already heard a thousand times, but know that we at Hogwarts are always here, should you require our services._

_On another, more pleasant note, your exam results should, I am told, be arriving soon and, although I understand that you will now not be going on your Grand Tour with Mr Doge, I wonder if you have given any more thought to the discussion that occurred between us at the end of term-‘_ Albus stopped reading- he could not take this- _not now_. He threw the letter aside.

The final letter was also in a recognisable hand- a rather untidy scrawl which Albus had also known for seven years.

_‘Dear Albus,_

_Oh my dearest friend! You will not believe what a time I have been having in Egypt! Continuing on from my last letter, as you know I took the ‘Queen of the Desert’ from Crete to Alexandria last week, then have been travelling down to Cairo. It was planned that I would just take a boat trip down the Nile, just to experience even a fraction o the country would have been a blessing, before staying for some few days in the city, before moving on the Mesopotamia. Well, plans do most certainly change fast! Egypt is truly a magnificent country! The heat is almost unbearable of course, but I purchased some white robes and one of those explorer hats- very dapper, I assure you!- which have helped immensely- been life-savers, in fact. Oh, and please do not tell Addie, but I have been a little unwell- nothing to worry about, old thing- but I ate, well, I did try this local goat dish (don’t tell Aberforth!) on the boat over which did taste a little dubious and most definitely did not agree with me and Addie distinctly, and in no uncertain terms, told me to be careful of the food. I am better now, however, so no harm done._

_Anyway! Alexandria! It truly is one of the jewels of Egypt, the world, in fact! The sculptures alone are a marvel-  I shall have so much to tell you and so many pictures and stories upon my return. It is my only regret that you are not here to experience these wonders with me, but perhaps someday, hopefully soon, we shall travel together- and I shall be a well-versed tour guide! Imagine that! And, dear old chap, do not think ill of me- as I know how you despite them- but you should, any day now, be receiving a post card with a little gift. I used a slower, and if I may say cheaper, owl for them so I am a tad uncertain as to the exact arrival time. The image is of a Temple of Amun, who, it is believed, was some form of Sun God back in the day._

_I am currently staying in a little boarding house by a market. Merlin! I have visited it so many time that I suspect the shopkeepers are starting to view me as some form of permanent fixture! But oh! The colours! The vibrancy! The life!_

_The wizarding community here is fascinating- they even breed sphinxes! You can imagine my alarm when I came across one caged in the corner of the market! I did not get too close after that experience with the chimera, I can assure you! After that, I simply had to find somewhere to sit quietly and became quite enamoured with a little restaurant on the edge of the square in which the market is located. It is a very small place, but perfect for when you want to escape the heat, and an eclectic mix of characters seem to gather there. On my third day in the city, I met this elderly gentleman there, who stated that he was headed for the pyramids and so-‘_

Albus stopped reading, jealousy consuming him as he skipped to the epistle’s final page, telling himself he would read the rest later, but knowing in reality he probably would not.

_‘and so it’s off to Mesopotamia next, having learnt my lesson about entering tombs without the proper preparations! I hope all is well with you. Send all your news by return owl as soon as possible! My thoughts and best wishes are with you, your friend, Elphias. P.S. I hope you like the post-card.’_

Albus laid the letter down, on top of a book entitled ‘Wizarding Communities of the East.’ Jealousy and anger continued to roil inside him, and suddenly, without warning, or really meaning to, he grabbed the book and threw it hard at the wall, which it struck with a satisfying thump. He tried hard not to scream in frustration. Next to join the book were his unfinished article, then his ink pot, then all the contents of his desk, one by one. The book shelves shook. He lent forward, head on his arms, trying hard not to cry.

Then then was an odd, scuffling noise, and he looked up. Miss Bagshot’s owl was there, with a letter written in an unfamiliar, angular hand attached to its leg. Suspecting who had written it, hoping, he quickly tore open the seal, scanning the page, a slight smile lifting his lips.

  _Reparo, accio,_ he thought. He looked at the unfinished article which had reappeared before him, the letters which needed replies, and sighed, deciding. He picked up a piece of parchment, smoothed it, thought for a minute, then reached for his quill and ink. Outside, the haze became storm clouds which rolled in and broke, rain, thunder and lightning darkening the sky.

 _‘Dear Gellert,’_ he wrote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is very overdue and I am sorry about that but things have been very hectic at the moment as I am at university and (joy, oh joy) it is exam time. In two and a half weeks they will be done, however, so then updating shoud become more regular. All belongs to JKR and none of the opinions expressed are my own etc. Hope you guys are still reading and enjoying this. Please comment! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Please comment etc if you want me to continue and I really appreciate your advice!


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